Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 140
October 24, 2018
This is my present obsession...
A reworking of the first bit of Dair's Window.
_____________
On the last morning we were together, as snow drifted soft against our bedroom window, I sang Dair awake.
"Dair it's Adam. Dair it's Adam.
Dormez vous? Dormez vous?
If you were awake, now.
We could have some fun, now.
Foolin' 'round. Foolin' 'round."
His dark beautiful eyes squinted a bit tighter and my arms he wrapped closer to him. Sometimes we would kiss and caress and love each other when he woke; other times...well, this time he breathed in deep and content and murmured, “Just snuggle.”
Which I was happy to do. I loved the feel of his body curled next to mine. So strong and nicely formed. Not as hard as me or as carefully crafted but human and real. Someone to hold you and be held. I loved the soft dark hairs on his arms and chest, even the scruff around his chin. To feel it rub against me as we kissed was to know heaven. He was still two years short of becoming thirty but his face had creases brought about by years of smiles and laughter. I often told him they made him better-looking than I, and he would laugh and call me liar and draw me into his embrace, and I would know peace.
But on this occasion all I said was, “That will take all morning and I must be to the slopes by nine, or your mother will fire me.”
“She won’t. She loves you more than me.”
“I am not sure how to read that comment,” I said, walking my fingers down his hip.
He chuckled, low and soft. “Any way you want.”
I kissed his dark, lovely eyes and he finally opened them.
“Café ou thé?” I asked.
“Coffee -- s'il vous plaît.” Spoken in his hideous accent. But why should he know French? We lived 4600 kilometers...2700 miles from my place of birth, close enough to Seattle to be nice, not so close as to be a problem.
I swatted his ass and rose from the bed, singing like Earth Kitt.
"C'est si bon.
C'est un café au lait.
And I bring it today.
Maybe on a tray, okay?"
I slipped into his moccasins and pulled on a thick robe to scurry into the kitchen, still humming. I know he watched me go; I heard him chuckle and stretch. He would stay warm under the covers. Drifting. Dreaming. Thinking. I did not mind. He had been up late fighting with the design for a window commissioned by his grandfather for his church. Reverend Samuels. Who was always kind to me, and polite, but never warm...like Dair or his mother.
When I said he was strong, it is because he worked in a medium that required strength -- stained glass...and he was brilliant with it. Never quick. Never easy. He would often tell me he cannot set the artwork into its frame...no...into her frame until she was ready to reveal herself to him. After a few months together, I began to see how his eyes would look a thousand yards away as he slipped deep into thought. That was when his next project would begin to join with him. His next work of art. I quickly grew to know when that expression filled his face, he soon would need me more than anyone. For he would wander into his studio. Sort through the panes of glass leaning against a long wall. Brilliant colors, all of them. Some flat. Some rough. Some thick. Some as thin as paper. Each with its own amazing beauty, its own spark of life to add to his vision. After touching and caressing them for hours, one would be chosen to slide away from the others and let fall to the concrete floor and shatter. Then he would pick at the pieces, choosing shards from the ruins. That is when I would come up and slip gloves onto his hands, to keep him from adding more scars to his fingers. He would find just the right slivers of deep blue or crimson red or yellow bright enough to put the sun to shame, and his work would begin.
So would mine. I made my living teaching ski lessons at his mother’s resort, in the winter, and as handyman and carpenter and whatever was needed when the season was over. This let me arrange my schedule to support him as he created. He would forget to eat or drink, so I would bring him food and water and wine to see he did. He would push himself to exhaustion were I not around to gently guide him upstairs to a hot shower and long, slow massage, which would lull him into sleep so he could begin the next day refreshed.
At first he would resist when I interfered with his work, but soon he came to trust that I was there to support him, not cause him pain or difficulty, and on occasion he would even lean into me and let me hold him and see, if only for an instant, the vision he was building. Oh dear God, how he used those slivers of translucent and transparent colors to build a new and intoxicating world. No paint was allowed to touch them, only light to reveal their beauty. He never asked what I thought of what I saw; he seemed to sense my admiration, for then he would turn to let me embrace and cuddle him as you would a sleepy child. And I would weep from joy.
My reward for this? The pleasure of seeing him alive and filled with meaning was enough for me, but he would always, as a way of thanking me, let me watch him put the last little piece of glass in place, always black, always with my name cut into it, and he would say, “This is my signature...and yours. Without you, this would not be.” And I would wrap my arms around him from behind and watch as he set it in and fitted the lead and heated it and polished it and made it just right.
Oh, dear God how I loved him.
I did not exist until he and I joined together. He was my home. My world. My life. As was his mother. Marion. He was right about her; she would never have fired me. She and I both loved her son beyond measure. Were I still alive, nothing could have come between us.
So yes...I am dead. You may wonder how it is possible for one like me to speak in the physical world, but it is not so difficult to understand. I have attached myself to a conduit who lets me tell my story through him. It is nothing unusual; many writers speak of their works finding them rather than them finding their works. And so...here is one who has opened himself to me.
My name was Adam Ferrier, once of Terrebonne by Montreal, living in Fairview at the time of my death. I was just past the age of twenty-six when I was caught by an avalanche. I remember not feeling fear as it crashed in upon me, only irritation. I did not know what had happened until I was dead.
So please believe me when I tell you of how lovely his art was. I do not say this because I love him...loved him...for in my new existence there is only truth allowed, nothing else; I say it because of what happened after I was taken from him. Had I known, I would never have let him come near me.
_____________
On the last morning we were together, as snow drifted soft against our bedroom window, I sang Dair awake.
"Dair it's Adam. Dair it's Adam.
Dormez vous? Dormez vous?
If you were awake, now.
We could have some fun, now.
Foolin' 'round. Foolin' 'round."
His dark beautiful eyes squinted a bit tighter and my arms he wrapped closer to him. Sometimes we would kiss and caress and love each other when he woke; other times...well, this time he breathed in deep and content and murmured, “Just snuggle.”
Which I was happy to do. I loved the feel of his body curled next to mine. So strong and nicely formed. Not as hard as me or as carefully crafted but human and real. Someone to hold you and be held. I loved the soft dark hairs on his arms and chest, even the scruff around his chin. To feel it rub against me as we kissed was to know heaven. He was still two years short of becoming thirty but his face had creases brought about by years of smiles and laughter. I often told him they made him better-looking than I, and he would laugh and call me liar and draw me into his embrace, and I would know peace.
But on this occasion all I said was, “That will take all morning and I must be to the slopes by nine, or your mother will fire me.”
“She won’t. She loves you more than me.”
“I am not sure how to read that comment,” I said, walking my fingers down his hip.
He chuckled, low and soft. “Any way you want.”
I kissed his dark, lovely eyes and he finally opened them.
“Café ou thé?” I asked.
“Coffee -- s'il vous plaît.” Spoken in his hideous accent. But why should he know French? We lived 4600 kilometers...2700 miles from my place of birth, close enough to Seattle to be nice, not so close as to be a problem.
I swatted his ass and rose from the bed, singing like Earth Kitt.
"C'est si bon.
C'est un café au lait.
And I bring it today.
Maybe on a tray, okay?"
I slipped into his moccasins and pulled on a thick robe to scurry into the kitchen, still humming. I know he watched me go; I heard him chuckle and stretch. He would stay warm under the covers. Drifting. Dreaming. Thinking. I did not mind. He had been up late fighting with the design for a window commissioned by his grandfather for his church. Reverend Samuels. Who was always kind to me, and polite, but never warm...like Dair or his mother.
When I said he was strong, it is because he worked in a medium that required strength -- stained glass...and he was brilliant with it. Never quick. Never easy. He would often tell me he cannot set the artwork into its frame...no...into her frame until she was ready to reveal herself to him. After a few months together, I began to see how his eyes would look a thousand yards away as he slipped deep into thought. That was when his next project would begin to join with him. His next work of art. I quickly grew to know when that expression filled his face, he soon would need me more than anyone. For he would wander into his studio. Sort through the panes of glass leaning against a long wall. Brilliant colors, all of them. Some flat. Some rough. Some thick. Some as thin as paper. Each with its own amazing beauty, its own spark of life to add to his vision. After touching and caressing them for hours, one would be chosen to slide away from the others and let fall to the concrete floor and shatter. Then he would pick at the pieces, choosing shards from the ruins. That is when I would come up and slip gloves onto his hands, to keep him from adding more scars to his fingers. He would find just the right slivers of deep blue or crimson red or yellow bright enough to put the sun to shame, and his work would begin.
So would mine. I made my living teaching ski lessons at his mother’s resort, in the winter, and as handyman and carpenter and whatever was needed when the season was over. This let me arrange my schedule to support him as he created. He would forget to eat or drink, so I would bring him food and water and wine to see he did. He would push himself to exhaustion were I not around to gently guide him upstairs to a hot shower and long, slow massage, which would lull him into sleep so he could begin the next day refreshed.
At first he would resist when I interfered with his work, but soon he came to trust that I was there to support him, not cause him pain or difficulty, and on occasion he would even lean into me and let me hold him and see, if only for an instant, the vision he was building. Oh dear God, how he used those slivers of translucent and transparent colors to build a new and intoxicating world. No paint was allowed to touch them, only light to reveal their beauty. He never asked what I thought of what I saw; he seemed to sense my admiration, for then he would turn to let me embrace and cuddle him as you would a sleepy child. And I would weep from joy.
My reward for this? The pleasure of seeing him alive and filled with meaning was enough for me, but he would always, as a way of thanking me, let me watch him put the last little piece of glass in place, always black, always with my name cut into it, and he would say, “This is my signature...and yours. Without you, this would not be.” And I would wrap my arms around him from behind and watch as he set it in and fitted the lead and heated it and polished it and made it just right.
Oh, dear God how I loved him.
I did not exist until he and I joined together. He was my home. My world. My life. As was his mother. Marion. He was right about her; she would never have fired me. She and I both loved her son beyond measure. Were I still alive, nothing could have come between us.
So yes...I am dead. You may wonder how it is possible for one like me to speak in the physical world, but it is not so difficult to understand. I have attached myself to a conduit who lets me tell my story through him. It is nothing unusual; many writers speak of their works finding them rather than them finding their works. And so...here is one who has opened himself to me.
My name was Adam Ferrier, once of Terrebonne by Montreal, living in Fairview at the time of my death. I was just past the age of twenty-six when I was caught by an avalanche. I remember not feeling fear as it crashed in upon me, only irritation. I did not know what had happened until I was dead.
So please believe me when I tell you of how lovely his art was. I do not say this because I love him...loved him...for in my new existence there is only truth allowed, nothing else; I say it because of what happened after I was taken from him. Had I known, I would never have let him come near me.
October 22, 2018
Typical inconsistent me...
I wasn't going to do NaNoWriMo, this year...but now it looks like I am. Since I worked up a treatment for the script, the story has been pounding on my psyche and today I let it in. And found the voice. And started with this...
--------
On winter mornings, as snow drifted soft against our bedroom window, I would sing Dair awake.
"Dair it's Adam. Dair it's Adam.
Dormez vous? Dormez vous?
If you were awake, now.
We could have some fun, now.
Foolin' 'round. Foolin' 'round."
His dark beautiful eyes would squint a bit tighter and my arms he would wrap closer to him, and sometimes we would kiss and caress and love each other; other times, he would breathe in deep and content and murmur, “Just snuggle.”
Which I was happy to do. I loved the feel of his body curled next to mine. So strong and nicely formed. Not as hard as mine or as carefully crafted but human and real. Someone to hold you and be held. I loved the soft dark hairs on his arms and chest, even the scruff around his chin. To feel it rub against me as we kissed was to know heaven.
He was two years short of becoming thirty, but his face had creases brought about by years of smiles and laughter. I often told him they made him better-looking than I, and he would laugh and call me liar and draw me into his embrace, and I would know peace. Know he was my home. My world. My life. For the short time we were together nothing could have come between us.
When I said he was strong, it was because he worked in a medium that required strength -- stained glass. And he is brilliant with it. Dear God, how he could use pieces and slivers of translucent and transparent colors to tell stories as great as a novel by Tolstoy. No paint allowed to touch them, only light to reveal their final beauty. There were so many times I would see his latest piece completed and feel my heart swell with joy at how I was his and he was mine. I do not say this because I love him...loved him...for in my new existence there is only truth allowed, nothing else. Had I known what would happen after I was taken from him I would never have let him come near me.
My name was Adam Ferrier, once of Terrebonne by Montreal, living in Fairview, Washington at the time of my death. I was just past the age of twenty-six and working as a ski instructor at the winter resort owned by Dair’s mother, Marion, when I was caught by an avalanche. I remember not feeling fear as it crashed in upon me, only irritation. I did not know what had happened until I was dead.
You may wonder how it is possible for me to speak, but it is not so difficult to understand. I have found a conduit who has opened his will to me and lets me tell my story. It is nothing unusual; many writers talk of how their works find them rather than them finding their works. And so...here is one who has opened himself to me.
And so ends my story...and is the beginning of Dair's...
--------
On winter mornings, as snow drifted soft against our bedroom window, I would sing Dair awake. "Dair it's Adam. Dair it's Adam.
Dormez vous? Dormez vous?
If you were awake, now.
We could have some fun, now.
Foolin' 'round. Foolin' 'round."
His dark beautiful eyes would squint a bit tighter and my arms he would wrap closer to him, and sometimes we would kiss and caress and love each other; other times, he would breathe in deep and content and murmur, “Just snuggle.”
Which I was happy to do. I loved the feel of his body curled next to mine. So strong and nicely formed. Not as hard as mine or as carefully crafted but human and real. Someone to hold you and be held. I loved the soft dark hairs on his arms and chest, even the scruff around his chin. To feel it rub against me as we kissed was to know heaven.
He was two years short of becoming thirty, but his face had creases brought about by years of smiles and laughter. I often told him they made him better-looking than I, and he would laugh and call me liar and draw me into his embrace, and I would know peace. Know he was my home. My world. My life. For the short time we were together nothing could have come between us.
When I said he was strong, it was because he worked in a medium that required strength -- stained glass. And he is brilliant with it. Dear God, how he could use pieces and slivers of translucent and transparent colors to tell stories as great as a novel by Tolstoy. No paint allowed to touch them, only light to reveal their final beauty. There were so many times I would see his latest piece completed and feel my heart swell with joy at how I was his and he was mine. I do not say this because I love him...loved him...for in my new existence there is only truth allowed, nothing else. Had I known what would happen after I was taken from him I would never have let him come near me.
My name was Adam Ferrier, once of Terrebonne by Montreal, living in Fairview, Washington at the time of my death. I was just past the age of twenty-six and working as a ski instructor at the winter resort owned by Dair’s mother, Marion, when I was caught by an avalanche. I remember not feeling fear as it crashed in upon me, only irritation. I did not know what had happened until I was dead.
You may wonder how it is possible for me to speak, but it is not so difficult to understand. I have found a conduit who has opened his will to me and lets me tell my story. It is nothing unusual; many writers talk of how their works find them rather than them finding their works. And so...here is one who has opened himself to me.
And so ends my story...and is the beginning of Dair's...
October 21, 2018
Catch-up day...
I reworked the synopsis for UG a few times and fussed about trying to understand why I can't send a word file of it out by .mac. I shifted it to Pages format and it went, fine. I shifted the pages back to docx...and it didn't, even though its code is different. No reason for this that I can figure out, whatsoever. What's even weirder is, I can send it out via any other email I have. So...some gremlin in Apple don't like my work.
I also did a lot of ironing after 3 weeks worth of laundry, so watched 3 different movie versions of The Seven Keys to Baldpate, which was the story I based The Lyons' Den on. The 1929 version was nice; it stuck to the story as written by Earl Derr Biggers and adapted by George M. Cohan, and Richard Dix was fun as billy Magee. The acting was a bit over the top, but it was early in the Talkies era.
The 1935 version with Gene Raymond as Billy was silly and, on occasion, so bad it was fun. They put in the original opening of the book to nice effect, but they changed the criminal nonsense to stolen diamonds and insurance fraud, had one character turn into a real detective and dropped the double-twist ending Cohan's famous for. However...Walter Brennan in a bit part and Henry Travers as the Hermit worked for me.
The 1947 version should have scrapped the title altogether. It was ludicrous, and the lead character was like Fred MacMurry-lite...and Fred's already a light actor. The only interesting aspect was having Billy overhear he's being set up to lose the bet so sticks around to play along. Then it goes totally off the rails and people are really killed and Billy...wait, they changed his name to Kenneth...turns into a coward of a hero and doesn't even get to work on the book he's supposed to write. The one saving grace was Arthur Shields, brother to Barry Fitzgerald, who's been in a number of John Ford films.
I haven't seen the 1917 version that actually stars George M Cohan as Billy, or the 1925 remake...and I definitely want to see the 1983 edition with Vincent Price, Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee...and Desi Arnaz Jr. in the Magee role (still Kenneth), but it's only available on either Amazon Prime video or some weird multiple format thing that I'm not sure about. Plus they moved the story to Wales. WALES!
I still think my version of the story's best.
I also did a lot of ironing after 3 weeks worth of laundry, so watched 3 different movie versions of The Seven Keys to Baldpate, which was the story I based The Lyons' Den on. The 1929 version was nice; it stuck to the story as written by Earl Derr Biggers and adapted by George M. Cohan, and Richard Dix was fun as billy Magee. The acting was a bit over the top, but it was early in the Talkies era.The 1935 version with Gene Raymond as Billy was silly and, on occasion, so bad it was fun. They put in the original opening of the book to nice effect, but they changed the criminal nonsense to stolen diamonds and insurance fraud, had one character turn into a real detective and dropped the double-twist ending Cohan's famous for. However...Walter Brennan in a bit part and Henry Travers as the Hermit worked for me.
The 1947 version should have scrapped the title altogether. It was ludicrous, and the lead character was like Fred MacMurry-lite...and Fred's already a light actor. The only interesting aspect was having Billy overhear he's being set up to lose the bet so sticks around to play along. Then it goes totally off the rails and people are really killed and Billy...wait, they changed his name to Kenneth...turns into a coward of a hero and doesn't even get to work on the book he's supposed to write. The one saving grace was Arthur Shields, brother to Barry Fitzgerald, who's been in a number of John Ford films.
I haven't seen the 1917 version that actually stars George M Cohan as Billy, or the 1925 remake...and I definitely want to see the 1983 edition with Vincent Price, Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee...and Desi Arnaz Jr. in the Magee role (still Kenneth), but it's only available on either Amazon Prime video or some weird multiple format thing that I'm not sure about. Plus they moved the story to Wales. WALES!
I still think my version of the story's best.
October 20, 2018
Okay, I done did it...
I submitted an application to the Universal Writers Program. Sent in Find Ray T for screenplay and Dair's Window for treatment, along with two letters of recommendation, a one-page resume and a 747 word personal statement. Notification for finalists is sometime late in January, and I would have to pay my own way out there for an interview, if I make it that far. Then, if I'm chosen, I'd have to be moved back to LA by the beginning of April to participate. It all happens on Universal Studios' grounds.
I want it...but the truth is I don't think I'll get it. I don't think I have what they're really looking for -- something like Crazy Rich Asians or Get Out, not Brokeback Cowboy light. Still, I plowed past my doubt and uncertainty and turned in what I think are both a damn good script and treatment. In fact, I so like the info I put into the treatment for DW, I'm thinking of doing that as my novel for NaNoWriMo, next month. It's like it's half-written, already, so it'd be doable...
Truth is, I like writing books, now. I can delve deeper into the characters' lives and histories and meanings...and there's a lot between Dair and Adam that could be explored. Made human. Same for Jacob; why is he so open to sex with either men or women? What makes him and Setsuko a tight couple? And Wallace's ambivalence...what's that all about? Things like that, which I can only hint at in the script due to space constraints.
Of course, I could make a mini-series of a script. One of the people in my graduate screenwriting program submitted a 360 page script meant for exactly that, dealing with the British military's insane decision to use pig or cow fat for loading weapons in India in the mid 19th Century, leading to the massive Sepoy Rebellion. She got her MFA off it.
I suppose it's possible to just write a long script, but a book is more interesting to me, right now. My only decision is -- shall I do it in first person or third? I rather like how third person worked with A65, but first person seems more immediate and alive to me.
Doesn't matter - it's entered and now I can shift focus to finalizing UG.
I want it...but the truth is I don't think I'll get it. I don't think I have what they're really looking for -- something like Crazy Rich Asians or Get Out, not Brokeback Cowboy light. Still, I plowed past my doubt and uncertainty and turned in what I think are both a damn good script and treatment. In fact, I so like the info I put into the treatment for DW, I'm thinking of doing that as my novel for NaNoWriMo, next month. It's like it's half-written, already, so it'd be doable...
Truth is, I like writing books, now. I can delve deeper into the characters' lives and histories and meanings...and there's a lot between Dair and Adam that could be explored. Made human. Same for Jacob; why is he so open to sex with either men or women? What makes him and Setsuko a tight couple? And Wallace's ambivalence...what's that all about? Things like that, which I can only hint at in the script due to space constraints.
Of course, I could make a mini-series of a script. One of the people in my graduate screenwriting program submitted a 360 page script meant for exactly that, dealing with the British military's insane decision to use pig or cow fat for loading weapons in India in the mid 19th Century, leading to the massive Sepoy Rebellion. She got her MFA off it.
I suppose it's possible to just write a long script, but a book is more interesting to me, right now. My only decision is -- shall I do it in first person or third? I rather like how third person worked with A65, but first person seems more immediate and alive to me.
Doesn't matter - it's entered and now I can shift focus to finalizing UG.
October 19, 2018
Updating my personal statement...
It cuts close...and is exactly 750 words long, according to Word's count. You may learn more about me than you want...but here it is --
--------
I was born without roots, destined to wander. I fell into this pattern almost from the moment I joined the world, in San Diego; my parents divorced a few months afterwards so I was shifted to San Antonio to live with my grandmother. Then my mother married a non-commissioned officer in the Air Force. He adopted me, so even my birth name proved impermanent. And as we changed abode from Reno to London to Kansas City to El Paso to Grand Forks, I grew comfortable with keeping friends and living quarters at a distance, since I knew none of them would be consistent. But it was in my sophomore year of high school that I finally understood that consistency was not to be part of my destiny...nor was being fully included in any part of anyone’s life. The world would see to that.
My stepfather was stationed at Hickham AFB in Honolulu for three years. I would be nearly eighteen when we were to return to the mainland. I wanted to make the trip back on a boat, but my parents laughed at the very idea...so I decided to pay my own way. I applied for my social security number and started looking for a job to save money. There were just two problems with this -- first, I was fifteen; second, I looked like I was twelve. I still talked my way into a part-time position at a newsstand in downtown Honolulu and started working towards my goal. But the city proved expensive to live in, so at the end of the school year my mother, brothers and sister and I were shipped back to San Antonio, and I left behind friends I’d intended to keep for years. This is when I gave up on any chance of inclusion, consistency or control in my life.
But by this point, I had grown used to being handled by others, so could not settle. I started a career as an artist. Changed to working in a bookshop. Attended two different colleges for a degree in film; two different cities for my master’s in screenwriting -- which I never finished. I moved apartments and got new cars as soon as they became too familiar...too much the same. Lived in New York, Austin, Houston and LA, where I continued to change living quarters and vehicles in search of something fresh and undemanding. Worked in more bookstores. Worked in film. Wrote screenplays. Did storyboards. Production design. Never able to settle.
I even avoided relationships. Being gay, there were ways to find pleasure without fear of commitment...until AIDs hit and I became an inadvertent celibate. Then I began to realize what I was really doing was keeping myself as naught but an observer of life because it was all I knew. To be part of the world takes some sort of control.
That’s when I began pouring my wishes and hopes and dreams into my writing, building characters like...well, like a ten year-old boy who sabotages the sale of his parents’ home so they can’t move; a book cataloguer who hides himself away from the world because of a family tragedy; a fighter pilot seeking an excuse to settle down; an artist desperate for commitment after nearly losing everything; an actor on the cusp of superstardom who treats his ex-wife and child like a scheduling issue. All of them seeking something I know I will never really have -- a place to belong to. Someone to be part of. A form of control. Inclusion in the world. Consistency.
I now write books and live in Buffalo, handling yet another kind of job: packing libraries and archives. I travel a lot, which helped me settle into one apartment for nearly nine years; I'm not home enough for it to grow too familiar. My wanderlust is held at bay because I’ve worked in places I’d never have gone to on my own -- Salt Lake City, Boise, Lisbon, Munich, Hong Kong, Milwaukee, Key West, Albuquerque, Denver, Birmingham, York, Burlington, Salisbury, Portland, Bangor. My current career has returned me to London many times, as well as Dublin, Derry, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Chicago, New York City, New Haven, Boston. I almost feel settled here.
But I still remain without roots...and still accept that my ethereal destiny is carved in stone. I will never be in control...never included...cannot be. I am unable to view life as something to be shared.
Except when I write.
--------
I was born without roots, destined to wander. I fell into this pattern almost from the moment I joined the world, in San Diego; my parents divorced a few months afterwards so I was shifted to San Antonio to live with my grandmother. Then my mother married a non-commissioned officer in the Air Force. He adopted me, so even my birth name proved impermanent. And as we changed abode from Reno to London to Kansas City to El Paso to Grand Forks, I grew comfortable with keeping friends and living quarters at a distance, since I knew none of them would be consistent. But it was in my sophomore year of high school that I finally understood that consistency was not to be part of my destiny...nor was being fully included in any part of anyone’s life. The world would see to that.
My stepfather was stationed at Hickham AFB in Honolulu for three years. I would be nearly eighteen when we were to return to the mainland. I wanted to make the trip back on a boat, but my parents laughed at the very idea...so I decided to pay my own way. I applied for my social security number and started looking for a job to save money. There were just two problems with this -- first, I was fifteen; second, I looked like I was twelve. I still talked my way into a part-time position at a newsstand in downtown Honolulu and started working towards my goal. But the city proved expensive to live in, so at the end of the school year my mother, brothers and sister and I were shipped back to San Antonio, and I left behind friends I’d intended to keep for years. This is when I gave up on any chance of inclusion, consistency or control in my life.
But by this point, I had grown used to being handled by others, so could not settle. I started a career as an artist. Changed to working in a bookshop. Attended two different colleges for a degree in film; two different cities for my master’s in screenwriting -- which I never finished. I moved apartments and got new cars as soon as they became too familiar...too much the same. Lived in New York, Austin, Houston and LA, where I continued to change living quarters and vehicles in search of something fresh and undemanding. Worked in more bookstores. Worked in film. Wrote screenplays. Did storyboards. Production design. Never able to settle.
I even avoided relationships. Being gay, there were ways to find pleasure without fear of commitment...until AIDs hit and I became an inadvertent celibate. Then I began to realize what I was really doing was keeping myself as naught but an observer of life because it was all I knew. To be part of the world takes some sort of control.
That’s when I began pouring my wishes and hopes and dreams into my writing, building characters like...well, like a ten year-old boy who sabotages the sale of his parents’ home so they can’t move; a book cataloguer who hides himself away from the world because of a family tragedy; a fighter pilot seeking an excuse to settle down; an artist desperate for commitment after nearly losing everything; an actor on the cusp of superstardom who treats his ex-wife and child like a scheduling issue. All of them seeking something I know I will never really have -- a place to belong to. Someone to be part of. A form of control. Inclusion in the world. Consistency.
I now write books and live in Buffalo, handling yet another kind of job: packing libraries and archives. I travel a lot, which helped me settle into one apartment for nearly nine years; I'm not home enough for it to grow too familiar. My wanderlust is held at bay because I’ve worked in places I’d never have gone to on my own -- Salt Lake City, Boise, Lisbon, Munich, Hong Kong, Milwaukee, Key West, Albuquerque, Denver, Birmingham, York, Burlington, Salisbury, Portland, Bangor. My current career has returned me to London many times, as well as Dublin, Derry, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Chicago, New York City, New Haven, Boston. I almost feel settled here.
But I still remain without roots...and still accept that my ethereal destiny is carved in stone. I will never be in control...never included...cannot be. I am unable to view life as something to be shared.
Except when I write.
October 17, 2018
Personal statement...
I have a new personal statement for the Universal application...
------------
I was born without roots, destined to wander. My world fell into this pattern from the moment I was born, and I have been constantly on the move since.
I joined this world in San Diego, but my parents divorced a few months later so I was shifted to San Antonio to live with my grandmother. When my mother remarried, it was to a non-commissioned officer in the Air Force. He adopted me so I left my birth name behind, and as we changed abode every couple of years -- Reno, London, Kansas City, El Paso, Grand Forks -- I grew comfortable with having friends and living quarters for a short time. But it was in my sophomore year of high school, in Honolulu, that I finally understood it was my destiny never to be settled.
We were slated to live there for 3 years, not returning stateside till I was 18 years of age. I wanted to make the trip back on a boat, but my mother and step-father laughed at the very idea and refused to even consider it. So I decided to go on my own. I got my social security number and started looking for a job to begin saving for the passage.
There were two problems with this plan -- 1. I was 15 and 2. I looked like I was 12. I talked my way into a afternoon position at a newsstand in the center city, not far from my high school, and started towards my goal...but Honolulu proved too expensive to live in, so at the end of the school year my mother, brothers and sister and I left my step-father to himself and returned to the mainland to settle in San Antonio.
Only I did not settle. I could not. I had grown too used to a new school every year or two. Temporary friends. Different worlds. No connections allowed. I built a career as an artist. Changed to working in a bookshop. I went to two different colleges to get a degree in film; two different colleges for my master’s in screenwriting...which I never finished. I moved apartments and got new cars, soon as they became too familiar. Moved to New York, Austin, Houston and LA, where I continued to change apartments in search of something fresh and new. Worked in more bookstores. Worked in film. Wrote screenplays. Did storyboards. My wanderlust was incapable of being satiated.
I even refused to be encumbered by relationships. Being a gay man, there were easy ways to find pleasure without commitment...until AIDs hit and I found myself an inadvertent celibate. Then I slowly began to realize that what I was doing was hiding, deflecting, refusing to be a part of the world, keeping myself as naught but an observer.
That is when I began pouring my wishes and hopes and dreams into my writing, building characters like...well, like a 10 year-old boy who’s sabotaging the sale of his parents’ home so they can’t move, and a book cataloguer who’s hidden himself away from the world because of a family tragedy, and a fighter pilot seeking a reason to settle down, and an artist desperate for a commitment after nearly losing everything when his lover died, and an actor on the cusp of superstardom who treats his ex-wife and child like a scheduling issue. All of these characters seek something I know I will never have -- a place to belong to...someone to be part of. When I lived in LA, I almost achieved that.
Almost.
I now write books and live in Buffalo (NY) handling yet another kind of job -- packing libraries and archives. I travel a great deal, which let me settle into one apartment for eight years, longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere. I'm not here long enough for it to grow too familiar. The wanderlust is held at bay because I’ve worked in places I’d never have gone to on my own -- Salt Lake City, Boise, Lisbon, Munich, Hong Kong, Milwaukee, Key West, Albuquerque, Denver, Birmingham, York, Burlington, Salisbury, Portland, Bangor. My current career has returned me to London on many occasions, and Dublin, Derry, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, New York City, New Haven, Boston. I almost feel settled here.
Almost.
But I still remain without roots...and my destiny is set in stone -- my life will continue to inform my work and my work will reflect my life.
I would not...cannot have it any other way.
------------
I was born without roots, destined to wander. My world fell into this pattern from the moment I was born, and I have been constantly on the move since.
I joined this world in San Diego, but my parents divorced a few months later so I was shifted to San Antonio to live with my grandmother. When my mother remarried, it was to a non-commissioned officer in the Air Force. He adopted me so I left my birth name behind, and as we changed abode every couple of years -- Reno, London, Kansas City, El Paso, Grand Forks -- I grew comfortable with having friends and living quarters for a short time. But it was in my sophomore year of high school, in Honolulu, that I finally understood it was my destiny never to be settled.
We were slated to live there for 3 years, not returning stateside till I was 18 years of age. I wanted to make the trip back on a boat, but my mother and step-father laughed at the very idea and refused to even consider it. So I decided to go on my own. I got my social security number and started looking for a job to begin saving for the passage.
There were two problems with this plan -- 1. I was 15 and 2. I looked like I was 12. I talked my way into a afternoon position at a newsstand in the center city, not far from my high school, and started towards my goal...but Honolulu proved too expensive to live in, so at the end of the school year my mother, brothers and sister and I left my step-father to himself and returned to the mainland to settle in San Antonio.
Only I did not settle. I could not. I had grown too used to a new school every year or two. Temporary friends. Different worlds. No connections allowed. I built a career as an artist. Changed to working in a bookshop. I went to two different colleges to get a degree in film; two different colleges for my master’s in screenwriting...which I never finished. I moved apartments and got new cars, soon as they became too familiar. Moved to New York, Austin, Houston and LA, where I continued to change apartments in search of something fresh and new. Worked in more bookstores. Worked in film. Wrote screenplays. Did storyboards. My wanderlust was incapable of being satiated.
I even refused to be encumbered by relationships. Being a gay man, there were easy ways to find pleasure without commitment...until AIDs hit and I found myself an inadvertent celibate. Then I slowly began to realize that what I was doing was hiding, deflecting, refusing to be a part of the world, keeping myself as naught but an observer.
That is when I began pouring my wishes and hopes and dreams into my writing, building characters like...well, like a 10 year-old boy who’s sabotaging the sale of his parents’ home so they can’t move, and a book cataloguer who’s hidden himself away from the world because of a family tragedy, and a fighter pilot seeking a reason to settle down, and an artist desperate for a commitment after nearly losing everything when his lover died, and an actor on the cusp of superstardom who treats his ex-wife and child like a scheduling issue. All of these characters seek something I know I will never have -- a place to belong to...someone to be part of. When I lived in LA, I almost achieved that.
Almost.
I now write books and live in Buffalo (NY) handling yet another kind of job -- packing libraries and archives. I travel a great deal, which let me settle into one apartment for eight years, longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere. I'm not here long enough for it to grow too familiar. The wanderlust is held at bay because I’ve worked in places I’d never have gone to on my own -- Salt Lake City, Boise, Lisbon, Munich, Hong Kong, Milwaukee, Key West, Albuquerque, Denver, Birmingham, York, Burlington, Salisbury, Portland, Bangor. My current career has returned me to London on many occasions, and Dublin, Derry, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, New York City, New Haven, Boston. I almost feel settled here.
Almost.
But I still remain without roots...and my destiny is set in stone -- my life will continue to inform my work and my work will reflect my life.
I would not...cannot have it any other way.
October 16, 2018
Long ride home...
I'm getting to where I hate taking a redeye from the west coast to the east. I can't sleep on a plane; I just doze which does no good. And I'm tired of making trips on the cheap. The only positive thing about last night's journey home was I had a row of seats to myself so wound up working on both FRT and a synopsis for Underground Guy.
UG is one of my rough gay novels, where sex is used as a weapon, and it's proving to be problematic when it comes to working up an idea of the story. This is what I've got...
-------
Devlin Pope is fighting to maintain control of his life. After a week in London on a business trip, the day before he was set to return to New York, he got a call from the state police in New Jersey. They may have found the remains of his mother, who vanished 22 years ago, and want him to provide a DNA sample to verify the body.
This couldn’t come at a worse moment for Dev. The company he owns with his brother is finally doing well after nearly being destroyed by fraud. He's also getting all the sex he wants with men who are into the same sort of dominance games he enjoys. He’s even at the point where his long-deceased father’s physical abuse has become little more than a bad memory. But the suggestion that his mother didn't run off but was killed by his father, something he suspected but was able to ignore till now, wipes all of that aside and sends him crashing into chaos.
His turmoil explodes out of control as he’s riding back to his hotel on London’s Underground; he fixates on a young man with a tattoo that looks just like his mother’s, shifts into predator mode, follows the guy off the train, kidnaps him, and sexually assaults him. But instead of calming the beast within, as it used to do in the past, his turmoil increases and he is wracked with guilt over what he has just done.
Devlin winds up being arrested and learns the man he attacked is an undercover cop named Reg, who was acting as a decoy to try and trap a serial killer. Three men who resembled Reg had been raped and murdered, in the last few months. Thanks to Devlin’s interference, that number has now increased to four. Naturally, the British Police think Dev’s the maniac’s accomplice, and there is nothing he can say or do to change their minds.
In fact, the evidence against him keeps mounting. What’s more, the shame he feels for assaulting Reg brings up more issues and memories he thought long buried. He careens into a brutal re-evaluation of his life even as he does all he can to track down the killer before another man dies...because it’s looking more and more like, thanks to Devlin’s actions, Reg has been marked as the killer’s next target.
And to Dev's shock, he would sooner die than let that happen.
UG is one of my rough gay novels, where sex is used as a weapon, and it's proving to be problematic when it comes to working up an idea of the story. This is what I've got...
-------
Devlin Pope is fighting to maintain control of his life. After a week in London on a business trip, the day before he was set to return to New York, he got a call from the state police in New Jersey. They may have found the remains of his mother, who vanished 22 years ago, and want him to provide a DNA sample to verify the body.
This couldn’t come at a worse moment for Dev. The company he owns with his brother is finally doing well after nearly being destroyed by fraud. He's also getting all the sex he wants with men who are into the same sort of dominance games he enjoys. He’s even at the point where his long-deceased father’s physical abuse has become little more than a bad memory. But the suggestion that his mother didn't run off but was killed by his father, something he suspected but was able to ignore till now, wipes all of that aside and sends him crashing into chaos.
His turmoil explodes out of control as he’s riding back to his hotel on London’s Underground; he fixates on a young man with a tattoo that looks just like his mother’s, shifts into predator mode, follows the guy off the train, kidnaps him, and sexually assaults him. But instead of calming the beast within, as it used to do in the past, his turmoil increases and he is wracked with guilt over what he has just done.
Devlin winds up being arrested and learns the man he attacked is an undercover cop named Reg, who was acting as a decoy to try and trap a serial killer. Three men who resembled Reg had been raped and murdered, in the last few months. Thanks to Devlin’s interference, that number has now increased to four. Naturally, the British Police think Dev’s the maniac’s accomplice, and there is nothing he can say or do to change their minds.
In fact, the evidence against him keeps mounting. What’s more, the shame he feels for assaulting Reg brings up more issues and memories he thought long buried. He careens into a brutal re-evaluation of his life even as he does all he can to track down the killer before another man dies...because it’s looking more and more like, thanks to Devlin’s actions, Reg has been marked as the killer’s next target.
And to Dev's shock, he would sooner die than let that happen.
October 15, 2018
En route home...
I always loved coming to Seattle's airport, but not this time. There's construction everywhere and the atrium where you could sit and eat and watch planes come and go is closed off. They only have one security entrance for TSA Pre-check. I'm stuck in a stuffy, hot, tiny gate with minimal seating and 8 power outlets waiting for a redeye to Boston to connect to my flight to Buffalo...and it's going to be an hour late.
That's not all; when I came to pick up a rental car, I had to stand in line for 20 minutes waiting for the shuttle bus to the rental center...and I was the next to the last person they let on. I don't know what the hell happened in the last year, but this is sad. A once-very comfortable airport is now just like any other -- hateful to its passengers.
Of course, all weekend was insane. The I-5, which is the only real way into downtown Seattle, was cut down to 2 out of 5 lanes and traffic was backed up for miles, so our driver was an hour late. Then one of the smaller dealers moving himself out parked his truck in the worst possible spot and none of the security people would ask him to move it until my truck arrived, even though it was messing with the other dealers getting their goods down to their cars. He cast me several dirty looks when that happened, and it took all I had to keep from flipping him off.
However, feedback I garnered on the fair was good, for the most part. Several dealers had sales in the 5-figures, which makes them very happy. And to be honest, I think the few grumblers whine because they don't want anyone to know how well they actually did.
Unfortunately, the warehouse we deal with out here for the Seattle Book Fair moved to a new location that does not make sense. I mean, it's good from a size standpoint; they now have 100K square feet of warehouse. But try and find it. Seriously. Even my GPS took me wrong. I wandered around an area of run down buildings and rutted parking lots before I happened to notice the company's trailers on the other side of some trees behind what looked like a new office building. It was disconcerting...but now I know how to get there so it may be better. But it's also 5 miles further away from town, which can be an issue.
After I was done, I drove down to Mount Ranier National Park and almost went up to the Sunrise visitor center, but they want $30 to pass through the upper gate, so I turned around...and it's good that I did because it closes in September for winter. I should have researched that before going, but it was spur of the moment so...
I did it mainly to get a feel for where Dair lives and that was enough. The ski lodges are high up in the woods and that forest is thick! And steep! But I could see why anyone would want to live there -- it's amazingly beautiful and helped my mood, a lot. But I have to wonder if it's a place avalanches would easily happen.
More research is needed...
That's not all; when I came to pick up a rental car, I had to stand in line for 20 minutes waiting for the shuttle bus to the rental center...and I was the next to the last person they let on. I don't know what the hell happened in the last year, but this is sad. A once-very comfortable airport is now just like any other -- hateful to its passengers.
Of course, all weekend was insane. The I-5, which is the only real way into downtown Seattle, was cut down to 2 out of 5 lanes and traffic was backed up for miles, so our driver was an hour late. Then one of the smaller dealers moving himself out parked his truck in the worst possible spot and none of the security people would ask him to move it until my truck arrived, even though it was messing with the other dealers getting their goods down to their cars. He cast me several dirty looks when that happened, and it took all I had to keep from flipping him off.
However, feedback I garnered on the fair was good, for the most part. Several dealers had sales in the 5-figures, which makes them very happy. And to be honest, I think the few grumblers whine because they don't want anyone to know how well they actually did.
Unfortunately, the warehouse we deal with out here for the Seattle Book Fair moved to a new location that does not make sense. I mean, it's good from a size standpoint; they now have 100K square feet of warehouse. But try and find it. Seriously. Even my GPS took me wrong. I wandered around an area of run down buildings and rutted parking lots before I happened to notice the company's trailers on the other side of some trees behind what looked like a new office building. It was disconcerting...but now I know how to get there so it may be better. But it's also 5 miles further away from town, which can be an issue.
After I was done, I drove down to Mount Ranier National Park and almost went up to the Sunrise visitor center, but they want $30 to pass through the upper gate, so I turned around...and it's good that I did because it closes in September for winter. I should have researched that before going, but it was spur of the moment so...
I did it mainly to get a feel for where Dair lives and that was enough. The ski lodges are high up in the woods and that forest is thick! And steep! But I could see why anyone would want to live there -- it's amazingly beautiful and helped my mood, a lot. But I have to wonder if it's a place avalanches would easily happen.
More research is needed...
October 13, 2018
Back to FRT...
Today I spent doing a red-pen correction of Find Ray T. Found a number of typos and some inconsistencies and repetitions to remove, but overall it's a much better script than it was. Damon's rootlessness gives him a nicer story arc. He starts out more shallow but it brings an lot more heft to the whole process...because he's learning how important it is to stick with people. So when he tells Celia it's over, she points out he's still refusing to commit to someone for very long by dumping her, but he immediately goes to his ex-wife, Tara, and starts trying to rebuild the life he had with her and his son...and he refers to Celia as an escape that he's not going to take anymore.
I'm also working up a basic resume. Nothing much to it, since they only want 15-20 years back, so it's fitting onto one page. I found I didn't get a storyboarding credit for work I did on Red Sky, but I'm not surprised. In fact, the real shock is that they actually shot it. I thought it had tanked when Mario Van Peebles came aboard to direct and Dave Riggs got himself a ticket to jail for buzzing the Santa Monica Pier in an old fighter jet...then dying in a plane crash in China.
Anyway, the last 20 years have been both steady and insane, career-wise, so I'm not sure what I'll put in to make my work history match up with my personal statement. But I have time.
I registered the treatment for Dair's Window with the WGA, per requirement. Once I have the changes and corrections input into FRT, which has to be done on my desktop computer since my Final Draft is too old to work on my laptop, I'll register that and then it's off to the races. No idea how long it takes to find out anything, but you have to start the program on April Fools' Day...which seems appropriate...so it must be fairly quick.
I'm having Underground Guy beta read and edited. I think it's ready enough to start getting feedback on...and I've begun talking about it in some of the facebook groups I belong to as well as my tumbler blog. Next step is to set up a temporary page on my website for people to go to and for me to update info till it's ready. I'm setting it up through Smashwords as an ebook, to start. Paperback is later.
Now to shower and bed and prepare for the Seattle Book Fair, tomorrow.
I'm also working up a basic resume. Nothing much to it, since they only want 15-20 years back, so it's fitting onto one page. I found I didn't get a storyboarding credit for work I did on Red Sky, but I'm not surprised. In fact, the real shock is that they actually shot it. I thought it had tanked when Mario Van Peebles came aboard to direct and Dave Riggs got himself a ticket to jail for buzzing the Santa Monica Pier in an old fighter jet...then dying in a plane crash in China.
Anyway, the last 20 years have been both steady and insane, career-wise, so I'm not sure what I'll put in to make my work history match up with my personal statement. But I have time.
I registered the treatment for Dair's Window with the WGA, per requirement. Once I have the changes and corrections input into FRT, which has to be done on my desktop computer since my Final Draft is too old to work on my laptop, I'll register that and then it's off to the races. No idea how long it takes to find out anything, but you have to start the program on April Fools' Day...which seems appropriate...so it must be fairly quick.
I'm having Underground Guy beta read and edited. I think it's ready enough to start getting feedback on...and I've begun talking about it in some of the facebook groups I belong to as well as my tumbler blog. Next step is to set up a temporary page on my website for people to go to and for me to update info till it's ready. I'm setting it up through Smashwords as an ebook, to start. Paperback is later.
Now to shower and bed and prepare for the Seattle Book Fair, tomorrow.
October 12, 2018
A much better treatment...
The notes given tome by Korsair1 helped make this a lot better --
-------
Adair Llewellyn is a stained-glass artist trying to rebuild his life after the death of his lover and years of legal action by the man’s parents.
Adair Llewellyn -- 33, attractive, stained glass artist, sensitive but stubborn about defending himself from bullies and injustice.
Wallace Caruthers -- 38, a lawyer, photogenic, driven, ambitious, passionate about civil rights for all. Defended Dair in the lawsuit.
Jacob Messner -- 27, computer geek, lives and works in Tokyo, Wallace’s Best Man. Has no filter. Can be myopic, but also cuts to the heart of things,.
Setsuko Messner -- 26, pregnant, loves Jacob as he is, writes slash fiction as La Baguette. Speaks Japanese, English, and French. Sees the world for what it is.
Marion Llewellyn -- 55, determinedly beautiful, smart tongue, supremely self-confident, aware of everything. Owns a ski lodge in town.
Adam Ferrier -- 26, ski instructor, French Canadian. Disowned by his family for being gay. Pushed Dair into sharing his art with the world. Died in an avalanche.
Reverend Samuels -- 80, frail, an Episcopal minister. Walked with MLK for civil rights but does not agree with same-sex marriage. Willing to stay quiet because of Dair.
Act One: After 5 years of fighting vicious lawsuits by his dead lover’s parents, Dair returns home to prepare for his Christmas wedding to Wallace, and meets Jacob and Setsuko.
Act Two: Dair faces an arson attack and pushback from family and the community over the wedding. A fight over the attack lands him in jail, setting the whole town on edge.
Act Three: On the wedding day, Dair realizes he has not allowed himself time to grieve. So he cancels it. Instead, he creates a stained glass window for his grandfather’s church.
It’s a cold winter morning in Fairview, Washington. ADAM sings DAIR awake, wanting to fool around, but Dair prefers to snuggle so Adam gets up to make them coffee. Half asleep, Dair hears glass break so goes to check. He wanders into his stained glass studio to find dust sheets over everything, and Adam is outside, naked, calling to him as it snows and --
Dair jolts out of his daydream at the sound of his name. It’s five years later and he looks every minute of it. He stands in his studio. Dust sheets cover everything, including the frame and diagram for an arched stained-glass window. In his hands, he cradles a stained glass portrait of Adam. Memories of the man haunt him.
MARION barges in to tell him, in her usual snark, that REVEREND SAMUELS arrived then leads him back into a living room draped in dust sheets. WALLACE is having a tight discussion with Samuels about encoding same-sex marriage into national law to make the Supreme Court’s ruling binding. Samuels is opposed, as is his assistant, NELDA. Marion mocks their opposition by pointing out inconsistencies in their beliefs, but Dair calms everyone. They discuss plans for the wedding, set for Christmas Day at five minutes to sunset, per Wallace’s request. Samuels has agreed to say a few words though he won’t officiate. Dair doesn’t care; what matters is family.
While having with Wallace lunch in a diner, Dair is greeted by friends...and glared at by a few townsfolk. We learn he almost lost his Fairview home and had to live in Seattle until the legal issues ended. More memories of Adam crash over him as Wallace raises the possibility of running for office. Dair half-jokingly says that would be grounds for divorce. He also agrees to collect Wallace’s best man from the airport, the next day.
As Dair and Marion clean the house, Wallace calls to tell him JACOB and his wife SETSUKO have arrived; Jacob mixed up his days. Wallace is in meetings, so Dair rushes down to take them to his Seattle studio to freshen up, where he finds Jacob has an off-beat way of viewing his art. They meet Wallace for dinner, where Jacob needles Wallace while Setsuko keeps him in check. Dair learns Wallace and Jacob were lovers in Tokyo and Setsuko was fine with it, but he is not happy. Wallace insists it was only temporary...but his actions and attitude suggest otherwise.
En route to Fairview, Setsuko tells Dair that, as a slash fiction author, she has her own view the world. During a stop at a store, Dair runs into Nelda’s husband, BOBBY, who sneers homophobic remarks at him. Dair snipes back. Then when he’s leaving, he sees Bobby throw a bottle of beer at Jacob as he and Nelda drive away in their truck. Dair calls the sheriff but expects nothing will be done.
At home, Marion greets the trio with fresh beds and airy comments then leaves. Jacob and Setsuko see Dair’s more personal art, including Adam’s portrait. Jacob notices that changing the light makes Adam’s expression change, like a hologram. Inspired, he updates Dair’s website as a wedding present, using the portrait as the centerpiece. It’s beautiful, once it’s done, but it triggers Dair’s memories of Adam, which are made worse when Jacob sets one of Adam’s CDs to playing and draws Setsuko into a dance.
Dair remembers the support he got from Adam...the joy they shared...how Adam kept him centered, even in the face of homophobia from Bobby and others...but the memories grow darker and more intense until he envisions Adam being caught in an avalanche and vanishing into darkness...and then watching Adam’s body being taken away by his hateful parents, who refused to even let Dair say goodbye.
Dair bolts for his studio, memories of Adam crushing him with one additional horror -- he used to be able to sketch Adam from memory, but he can no longer see his face. He tries to sketch the man...but each piece is wrong...wrong...wrong. He shreds the sketches and takes them outside to burn in the snow. In his distress, he forgot he was barefoot and there are slivers of glass strewn across the floor from previous work he’s done...and they have cut his feet, trailing blood over the snow.
Jacob finds him and coaxes him back inside then removes glass chips from his soles. Dair reveals Adam’s parents sued him for community property, even though the two were not married. He spent five years fighting them, thanks to a homophobic judge who favored the parents, until Wallace took over, got the judge removed, and had the suit tossed out. During this, they grew close.
Jacob gets Dair to bed and snuggles with him, like Adam used to. Dair drifts to sleep. Setsuko finds them and sings Jacob to sleep with a Japanese children’s song.
They wake to find Dair’s studio ablaze. A lot of the artwork is destroyed, including Adam’s portrait, and looks like arson. As the firemen finish up, Dair wanders into the woods, dazed, and sees a young red fox skipping away. He turns to find homophobic remarks painted on the side of his house. The sheriff balks at calling it a hate crime, but Jacob and Marion sneer at his attitude.
Samuels asks Dair to move his wedding to Seattle, but Dair refuses to be driven off. When Samuels is chauffeured away by Nelda, Dair notices her truck is slightly damaged.
Jacob thinks Dair and Wallace are mismatched and counsels against the wedding. Dair, in turn, disparages Jacob’s openness to both sexes as indecisive. Jacob snaps those are Wallace’s words, so maybe they are right for each other.
While Jacob and Dair silently put up Christmas decorations, Marion asks Setsuko why she puts up with Jacob. Her response is simple -- when you love someone, you accept them for who they are, and she thinks Dair will hurt Jacob because he cannot.
When Dair takes out the garbage, he sees the red fox pounce on a mouse and carry it off...then notices paint the same color as Nelda’s truck is scraped on a tree. He confronts Bobby by Samuels’ church. Bobby denies trying to burn Dair out and snarls he’s sorry Dair wasn’t killed with Adam. Dair jumps him. The fight is vicious and Dair has to be dragged off Bobby by Samuels and others. The sheriff arrests Dair for assault.
Dair is arraigned on Christmas Eve, with Wallace there to fight the ludicrous charges. The paint on the tree by Dair’s house is from Nelda’s truck and there is a history of animosity between Dair and Bobby, but trial is still set for after the first of the year. Wallace feigns anger but is secretly pleased he can use the situation to show how gay men and straight men are treated differently by the legal system. As Marion drives Dair home, he remembers driving with her and Adam and how alive they all once were.
Samuels informs Dair he’s been asked to retire because of the fight. Easter will be his last service. Dair is sorry but is still going through with the ceremony, the next day, to Jacob’s surprise. They argue and Dair lets slip one reason he’s marrying Wallace it to prevent a repeat of what happened with Adam’s parents. Jacob is disgusted by that.
On the wedding day, the lodge is ready. Guests have arrived. Food is being served. Samuels is there but has refused to talk to a couple of men who asked if he would officiate at their wedding. Jacob is pissed. Just before sunset, Wallace shows up with news crews and a couple of State Senators in tow. He’s making this into an event from which to launch his campaign for the legislature.
Unsettled, Dair goes upstairs to finish dressing, but sees a photo of Adam and remembers dressing him for one of Marion’s weddings...and sinks onto the bed.
Wallace waits...and waits...then goes up to Dair’s room to find he has not moved. He sees the photo and snarls that Dair has idolized a thieving ski bum into sainthood. Dair says he can’t be what Wallace needs, nor can Wallace be the right support for him. Wallace asks if Dair and Jacob slept together, to Dair’s indignant shock. He would never do that to someone. Wallace coldly goes down to dismiss the guests.
Marion comes upstairs to tell Dair the guests have gone to her lodge. Jacob and Setsuko are joining them. Then Setsuko comes in to thank Dair for a piece of his artwork he gave her. He tells her how Adam talked him into exhibiting at an art fair, making interest in his work explode. While en route home, Dair asked him to move in with him. He also says he once caught Adam stealing money from him. Other people have told him Adam was no angel, and he asks Setsuko what she thinks. She replies she has never cared what people think; it requires too much from you. Then she leaves.
The trial divides the community, with most people on Dair’s side, till it ends in a hung jury. The DA promises to re-file the charges, but Wallace says that will never happen. As she drives Dair home, Marion tells him his art became beautiful when he met Adam...but Adam is dead, and she fears Dair has given up on both art and life.
It’s snowing. Dair sits outside, unmoving...until the fox reappears. With it is another fox. Snow drifts down on them...and they shake it off. And leave. Dair smiles and returns to his studio, still lost in memories of Adam and the recent events. But there is a calmness to him, now. He begins work on the window his grandfather asked for, and in a gentle montage the project engulfs him as Adam joins him and helps him work and makes him eat and sleep and snuggles with him...and bit by bit he builds a magnificent window showing Christ in a meadow, draped in blues and whites, his arms spread wide above an open Bible whose pages read Matthew 25:31-45.
He sets the finished window into the church in time for Easter. Samuels invites him to sunrise services to start the healing process, but Dair is non-committal; he has never been part of that church. But he does not move until Adam whispers up behind him and holds him to murmur how proud he is of what Dair has done, and how he will always be with him, his face now finally in full view. Dair walks then runs away from the church, signs his house over to Marion to sell and catches a flight to Tokyo.
Cutting back and forth, the church’s pompous Easter services begin just as Dair locates Jacob and Setsuko, in Tokyo. Then as the sun rises over the Cascade Mountains and its light shines through the stained glass window, Dair apologizes to Jacob with a sketch of him that he drew from memory...and the image of Christ in the window does a hologram-like shift to that of Adam...and Samuels and half the congregation are shocked when they see the bible also shift to show Jacob and Dair as they kiss.
And that is when, as Setsuko holds Jacob’s child and watches, they finally do.
-------
Adair Llewellyn is a stained-glass artist trying to rebuild his life after the death of his lover and years of legal action by the man’s parents.
Adair Llewellyn -- 33, attractive, stained glass artist, sensitive but stubborn about defending himself from bullies and injustice.
Wallace Caruthers -- 38, a lawyer, photogenic, driven, ambitious, passionate about civil rights for all. Defended Dair in the lawsuit.
Jacob Messner -- 27, computer geek, lives and works in Tokyo, Wallace’s Best Man. Has no filter. Can be myopic, but also cuts to the heart of things,.
Setsuko Messner -- 26, pregnant, loves Jacob as he is, writes slash fiction as La Baguette. Speaks Japanese, English, and French. Sees the world for what it is.
Marion Llewellyn -- 55, determinedly beautiful, smart tongue, supremely self-confident, aware of everything. Owns a ski lodge in town.
Adam Ferrier -- 26, ski instructor, French Canadian. Disowned by his family for being gay. Pushed Dair into sharing his art with the world. Died in an avalanche.
Reverend Samuels -- 80, frail, an Episcopal minister. Walked with MLK for civil rights but does not agree with same-sex marriage. Willing to stay quiet because of Dair.
Act One: After 5 years of fighting vicious lawsuits by his dead lover’s parents, Dair returns home to prepare for his Christmas wedding to Wallace, and meets Jacob and Setsuko.
Act Two: Dair faces an arson attack and pushback from family and the community over the wedding. A fight over the attack lands him in jail, setting the whole town on edge.
Act Three: On the wedding day, Dair realizes he has not allowed himself time to grieve. So he cancels it. Instead, he creates a stained glass window for his grandfather’s church.
It’s a cold winter morning in Fairview, Washington. ADAM sings DAIR awake, wanting to fool around, but Dair prefers to snuggle so Adam gets up to make them coffee. Half asleep, Dair hears glass break so goes to check. He wanders into his stained glass studio to find dust sheets over everything, and Adam is outside, naked, calling to him as it snows and --
Dair jolts out of his daydream at the sound of his name. It’s five years later and he looks every minute of it. He stands in his studio. Dust sheets cover everything, including the frame and diagram for an arched stained-glass window. In his hands, he cradles a stained glass portrait of Adam. Memories of the man haunt him.
MARION barges in to tell him, in her usual snark, that REVEREND SAMUELS arrived then leads him back into a living room draped in dust sheets. WALLACE is having a tight discussion with Samuels about encoding same-sex marriage into national law to make the Supreme Court’s ruling binding. Samuels is opposed, as is his assistant, NELDA. Marion mocks their opposition by pointing out inconsistencies in their beliefs, but Dair calms everyone. They discuss plans for the wedding, set for Christmas Day at five minutes to sunset, per Wallace’s request. Samuels has agreed to say a few words though he won’t officiate. Dair doesn’t care; what matters is family.
While having with Wallace lunch in a diner, Dair is greeted by friends...and glared at by a few townsfolk. We learn he almost lost his Fairview home and had to live in Seattle until the legal issues ended. More memories of Adam crash over him as Wallace raises the possibility of running for office. Dair half-jokingly says that would be grounds for divorce. He also agrees to collect Wallace’s best man from the airport, the next day.
As Dair and Marion clean the house, Wallace calls to tell him JACOB and his wife SETSUKO have arrived; Jacob mixed up his days. Wallace is in meetings, so Dair rushes down to take them to his Seattle studio to freshen up, where he finds Jacob has an off-beat way of viewing his art. They meet Wallace for dinner, where Jacob needles Wallace while Setsuko keeps him in check. Dair learns Wallace and Jacob were lovers in Tokyo and Setsuko was fine with it, but he is not happy. Wallace insists it was only temporary...but his actions and attitude suggest otherwise.
En route to Fairview, Setsuko tells Dair that, as a slash fiction author, she has her own view the world. During a stop at a store, Dair runs into Nelda’s husband, BOBBY, who sneers homophobic remarks at him. Dair snipes back. Then when he’s leaving, he sees Bobby throw a bottle of beer at Jacob as he and Nelda drive away in their truck. Dair calls the sheriff but expects nothing will be done.
At home, Marion greets the trio with fresh beds and airy comments then leaves. Jacob and Setsuko see Dair’s more personal art, including Adam’s portrait. Jacob notices that changing the light makes Adam’s expression change, like a hologram. Inspired, he updates Dair’s website as a wedding present, using the portrait as the centerpiece. It’s beautiful, once it’s done, but it triggers Dair’s memories of Adam, which are made worse when Jacob sets one of Adam’s CDs to playing and draws Setsuko into a dance.
Dair remembers the support he got from Adam...the joy they shared...how Adam kept him centered, even in the face of homophobia from Bobby and others...but the memories grow darker and more intense until he envisions Adam being caught in an avalanche and vanishing into darkness...and then watching Adam’s body being taken away by his hateful parents, who refused to even let Dair say goodbye.
Dair bolts for his studio, memories of Adam crushing him with one additional horror -- he used to be able to sketch Adam from memory, but he can no longer see his face. He tries to sketch the man...but each piece is wrong...wrong...wrong. He shreds the sketches and takes them outside to burn in the snow. In his distress, he forgot he was barefoot and there are slivers of glass strewn across the floor from previous work he’s done...and they have cut his feet, trailing blood over the snow.
Jacob finds him and coaxes him back inside then removes glass chips from his soles. Dair reveals Adam’s parents sued him for community property, even though the two were not married. He spent five years fighting them, thanks to a homophobic judge who favored the parents, until Wallace took over, got the judge removed, and had the suit tossed out. During this, they grew close.
Jacob gets Dair to bed and snuggles with him, like Adam used to. Dair drifts to sleep. Setsuko finds them and sings Jacob to sleep with a Japanese children’s song.
They wake to find Dair’s studio ablaze. A lot of the artwork is destroyed, including Adam’s portrait, and looks like arson. As the firemen finish up, Dair wanders into the woods, dazed, and sees a young red fox skipping away. He turns to find homophobic remarks painted on the side of his house. The sheriff balks at calling it a hate crime, but Jacob and Marion sneer at his attitude.
Samuels asks Dair to move his wedding to Seattle, but Dair refuses to be driven off. When Samuels is chauffeured away by Nelda, Dair notices her truck is slightly damaged.
Jacob thinks Dair and Wallace are mismatched and counsels against the wedding. Dair, in turn, disparages Jacob’s openness to both sexes as indecisive. Jacob snaps those are Wallace’s words, so maybe they are right for each other.
While Jacob and Dair silently put up Christmas decorations, Marion asks Setsuko why she puts up with Jacob. Her response is simple -- when you love someone, you accept them for who they are, and she thinks Dair will hurt Jacob because he cannot.
When Dair takes out the garbage, he sees the red fox pounce on a mouse and carry it off...then notices paint the same color as Nelda’s truck is scraped on a tree. He confronts Bobby by Samuels’ church. Bobby denies trying to burn Dair out and snarls he’s sorry Dair wasn’t killed with Adam. Dair jumps him. The fight is vicious and Dair has to be dragged off Bobby by Samuels and others. The sheriff arrests Dair for assault.
Dair is arraigned on Christmas Eve, with Wallace there to fight the ludicrous charges. The paint on the tree by Dair’s house is from Nelda’s truck and there is a history of animosity between Dair and Bobby, but trial is still set for after the first of the year. Wallace feigns anger but is secretly pleased he can use the situation to show how gay men and straight men are treated differently by the legal system. As Marion drives Dair home, he remembers driving with her and Adam and how alive they all once were.
Samuels informs Dair he’s been asked to retire because of the fight. Easter will be his last service. Dair is sorry but is still going through with the ceremony, the next day, to Jacob’s surprise. They argue and Dair lets slip one reason he’s marrying Wallace it to prevent a repeat of what happened with Adam’s parents. Jacob is disgusted by that.
On the wedding day, the lodge is ready. Guests have arrived. Food is being served. Samuels is there but has refused to talk to a couple of men who asked if he would officiate at their wedding. Jacob is pissed. Just before sunset, Wallace shows up with news crews and a couple of State Senators in tow. He’s making this into an event from which to launch his campaign for the legislature.
Unsettled, Dair goes upstairs to finish dressing, but sees a photo of Adam and remembers dressing him for one of Marion’s weddings...and sinks onto the bed.
Wallace waits...and waits...then goes up to Dair’s room to find he has not moved. He sees the photo and snarls that Dair has idolized a thieving ski bum into sainthood. Dair says he can’t be what Wallace needs, nor can Wallace be the right support for him. Wallace asks if Dair and Jacob slept together, to Dair’s indignant shock. He would never do that to someone. Wallace coldly goes down to dismiss the guests.
Marion comes upstairs to tell Dair the guests have gone to her lodge. Jacob and Setsuko are joining them. Then Setsuko comes in to thank Dair for a piece of his artwork he gave her. He tells her how Adam talked him into exhibiting at an art fair, making interest in his work explode. While en route home, Dair asked him to move in with him. He also says he once caught Adam stealing money from him. Other people have told him Adam was no angel, and he asks Setsuko what she thinks. She replies she has never cared what people think; it requires too much from you. Then she leaves.
The trial divides the community, with most people on Dair’s side, till it ends in a hung jury. The DA promises to re-file the charges, but Wallace says that will never happen. As she drives Dair home, Marion tells him his art became beautiful when he met Adam...but Adam is dead, and she fears Dair has given up on both art and life.
It’s snowing. Dair sits outside, unmoving...until the fox reappears. With it is another fox. Snow drifts down on them...and they shake it off. And leave. Dair smiles and returns to his studio, still lost in memories of Adam and the recent events. But there is a calmness to him, now. He begins work on the window his grandfather asked for, and in a gentle montage the project engulfs him as Adam joins him and helps him work and makes him eat and sleep and snuggles with him...and bit by bit he builds a magnificent window showing Christ in a meadow, draped in blues and whites, his arms spread wide above an open Bible whose pages read Matthew 25:31-45.
He sets the finished window into the church in time for Easter. Samuels invites him to sunrise services to start the healing process, but Dair is non-committal; he has never been part of that church. But he does not move until Adam whispers up behind him and holds him to murmur how proud he is of what Dair has done, and how he will always be with him, his face now finally in full view. Dair walks then runs away from the church, signs his house over to Marion to sell and catches a flight to Tokyo.
Cutting back and forth, the church’s pompous Easter services begin just as Dair locates Jacob and Setsuko, in Tokyo. Then as the sun rises over the Cascade Mountains and its light shines through the stained glass window, Dair apologizes to Jacob with a sketch of him that he drew from memory...and the image of Christ in the window does a hologram-like shift to that of Adam...and Samuels and half the congregation are shocked when they see the bible also shift to show Jacob and Dair as they kiss.
And that is when, as Setsuko holds Jacob’s child and watches, they finally do.
