Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 153

Off on another adventure...

This time, I'm flying into Oakland for a job in Berkeley and then to see another possible job across the bay. All very tightly scheduled, so I'm sure to have lots of fun trying to keep to it. I don't like doing it this way, but not my choice. Next week's job will be easier since I'm driving to it and have a lot more flexibility in the timing.

I got more done on Place of Safety's outline. What's fun about having one set out is, when you have an idea you can hang in the right spot. I had a fun one regarding the end of Brendan's time in Derry, before he's shipped off to Houston...one that makes him feel responsible for everything. It helps his reaction to a bombing make a lot more sense.

I'll try and get more done on the trip, but a job we're bidding on, that I thought I had all but worked out on Friday, changed parameters completely. So I'm digging through that to prepare a better quote. What makes it irritating is, I got bitched at for letting a subcontractor know about the change and ask him to adjust, accordingly, so we could get his estimate in a timely fashion. They basically said, "We don't know what it is, yet, or who's paying or what's going where," when I'd already noted half their concerns on the initial XLS costing sheet, so they told him to ignore my emails and told me to handle the client and get the final info from them. As I'm traveling.

I'm getting tired of screwing up all the time. Tired of making a mess of what I do. Whether I actually do or don't is immaterial. I think I'm working things right and it turns out I'm doing it all wrong...consistently. And now the world is full of people who love to not only point our your mistakes but condescend towards you while doing so...something I've noticed I can do, as well, when I know I'm right about something. I don't like that, in me or in others...but it seems I'm only able to try and stop it in myself, no one else.

I used to think I took criticism pretty well...but I guess I don't. Not really. I mean, when it's ludicrous I can blow it off...but the quiet kind gets under my skin and makes me feel even more the failure. That may be half the reason for my extreme need to rework my stories. I'm hardly a great writer; I have to rework my books over and over to make them even begin to make sense, and even then people read the first few pages and shrug the rest of it off...and...

Okay...time to back away...I'm shifting into whine-mode and that is not acceptable.

Insanity, defined...

Okay, for some reason I'm sending a scene into ABC for a competition, and I'd like to get some response to it, if possible. This would be the opening.

FADE IN:

EXT. ROOFTOP PATIO - NIGHT

Overlooking the Los Angeles basin. Millions of glittering lights rival the stars for beauty.

CURRAN (O.S.)
(sings, Gregorian Chant)
In paradisum deducant te Angeli. In
tuo adventu suscipiant te Martyres et
perducant te in civitatem sanctam
Jerusalem.

CURRAN is 30, fair, attractive, athletic, well-dressed, and a bit drunk. He leans against the railing to gaze out over the City of Angeles, overwhelmed at the endless, endless blanket of light.

CURRAN (CONT’D)
Angelorum te suscipiat et cum Lazaro
quondam paupere aeternam habeas requiem.

HIP HOP MUSIC BLASTS. He jolts.

CURRAN (CONT’D)
(British)
Bloody hell.

He climbs onto the bannister’s corner, gains a careful balance. The ground twenty floors below; above him, only sky. He unzips his pants, whips himself out and pisses into oblivion.

CURRAN (CONT’D)
(sings)
It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old
man is snoring.

An elevator DINGS. Doors open. Out comes GERI ISHAM-TOPHER, lovely, dark, in a sleek dress, a professional camera hanging from one shoulder. She stops, at seeing him.

He keeps pissing.

CURRAN (CONT’D)
It's not my intention to jump, if that's
your concern.

GERI
Y'know, there’s a men's room's by the
elevator.

CURRAN
This was more convenient.

He motions out over the basin.

CURRAN (CONT’D)
Bloody awful sight, eh?

GERI
What? L-A? I think it's lovely.

CURRAN
How can it be, when each light so
far below represents a human being?
Millions upon millions of them, each
wrapped in his own little world, lost
to all others in the fullest sense.

GERI
...That's one way of looking at it.

CURRAN
How do you look at it?

GERI
A sea of gold.

CURRAN
It doesn't overwhelm you, knowing how
easy it'd be to drown in?

GERI
I know how to swim.

CURRAN
Ah...but beneath this bright surface of
loveliness lies a cruel undertow of
loneliness, waiting to carry you straight
to oblivion.

GERI
If you hate it so much, why you looking
at it?

CURRAN
Because, I'm a bloody idiot.

He zips up and jumps back to land neatly on his feet.

Geri whips her camera up and snaps a photo -- catches Curran seeming to look out in awe at the glistening lights.

He turns to her.

CURRAN (CONT’D)
Oh, Christ...you're paparazzi. Take
another, for scandal's sake?

He hold up a beer.

GERI
How many of those have you had?

CURRAN

I've lost count. The beer in this
country is pathetic. By the time I
have enough in me to matter, I have
to piss it all out. Ergo...”
(motions over the balcony)
I should stick to whiskey or wine.

GERI
Or water?

CURRAN
Ahh...the Mother Hen sort, are we?
Likes to keep track of moonstruck
chickies? Word of caution -- mad dogs
devour hens.

GERI
You're a mad dog?

CURRAN
One of my many monikers. What's one
of yours?

GERI
Geri.

CURRAN
A pleasure to make your acquaintance,
Geri. I’m --

GERI
Curran Llewellyn. They’re lookin’ for
you, inside.

CURRAN
Let ‘em. Exercise is good for cats who
are fat.

GERI
But you’re guest of honor.

CURRAN
Honor? Merely the newest acquisition
for the football team.

GERI
Soccer.

CURRAN
Not in England.

GERI
You’re not in England, now.

CURRAN
Bloody fucking obvious. Why’d you come
up here, anyway? Sent to drag the spoiled
child back to his duties?

GERI
I just wanted some fresh air.

CURRAN
You hate this party as much as I.
(draws close to her)
Yes, I can see that, now. What fascinating
eyes you have, Geri, deep and dark with
shadows hiding pain and --

GERI
Don’t...you talk to me, like that.

CURRAN
...Sorry. I was just being an arsehole.
Another of my many monikers. You may now
lead me back to the lions, little one.
Parade me before the heathens so they may
witness what good their dollars have wrought.
I go as a lamb to the slaughter.

GERI
Take yourself; I’m not your mother.

CURRAN
Then why do you sound so disappointed in me?

He starts away. Stops.

CURRAN (CONT'D)
Geri, I am sorry for --

GERI
For what? You haven’t done anything.

CURRAN
...Night’s still young. Enjoy your
golden sea.

He goes.

She takes a photo of him getting in the elevator. Looks back over the basin...starts to take a photo...but she stops...and she cannot move.

FADE OUT.

Nothin' to say, tonight, but this...

I am sick and fucking tired of the right wing wearing its hypocrisy as a badge of honor, not shame, and being told to be nice about it by self-proclaimed left wingers who seem awfully intent on silencing my anger at what's going on in this country. Here's my answer...


I wish I believed in hell so I'd know every fucking Christian evangelical would be burning in it, forever.

Confusion and complexity...

No writing done, today. I'm off to San Francisco on Monday and need to finish a quote for a library move. The person I spoke with told me it was 380 titles, some multiple volumes, and framed artwork...but in fact it's more like 4900 volumes because half of those "titles" are actually full shelves of various titled books. I counted them once I saw the photos. Just a bit of a difference that chucked all my preliminary work out the window.

This happens a lot more than is necessary. In fact, it's why we ask people to send us photos of the books they want to ship. Half the time those show the "regular-size" books are thick quartos (like smaller coffee table books) and occasionally elephant folios (as in massive). I ran into that with a job in Chicago a couple years ago, when a man who really should have known better told me 25% of a library he wanted me to pack was elephant folios while the rest were quartos and octavos (regular hardcover size).

It was 65% elephants, and that screwed up my plans, completely. I had to order more boxes. The job ran long. The client was pissed off. I had to leave the day before it was completed for another job we'd set up, so had to get someone to come in and finish the lesser books...which she was able to do without trouble but it was a major hassle. And...of course...it cost twice as much as they expected. If he'd sent me photos, like I asked, we wouldn't have had the issues and could have cut the costs by 20%.

So...this evening was spent catching up on that. A 2-day job for just me became a 3-5 day job, depending on whether or not I hire a couple of assistants...and the cost is going to be very high. I have a feeling we won't get it, because people who have million-dollar libraries will nickel and dime you over every price point in materials and labor and freight. We were approached by a man who won a painting in an auction for over $200K and he wanted it shipped to him for the equivalent of $1.98 and whined because our rate would have been $3K. It's ludicrous.

One great thing about working at Heritage was, Ben and Lou Weinstein understood that sometimes it's better to spend the money and do it right rather than be mealy-mouthed and childish about every penny. It saves you money in the long run and actually helps you make more, because people are more willing to trust you when they see you won't cut corners over nothing. There were people in the antiquarian trade who were jealous as hell of Heritage, but you don't get to be the biggest shop in the business by being cheap-assed.

I miss that place.

Hump day, in more ways than one...

I finished the outline for Book 1 of Place of Safety...the section set in Derry from February 1966 to October 1972. I'm still looking for bits I know I've written -- like when Brendan follows Joanna into Woolworth's on Waterloo Place and watches her and her friends look at the records for sale, play a few, including the one that has The Banks of Claudy on it. And when he and she meet in a park to discuss him leaving Derry and willing to set himself up where she decides to go for university, so he can be established there when she comes.

I may have shared this bit, before, but this happens when Brendan and Joanna cut school and go to Dublin with Father Jack, ostensibly to look over Trinity College but really just to be with each other away from the growing chaos in the city. They're now off on their own, having caught a bus from in front of the Guinness Brewery; they're both sixteen.

---------

We hopped off on O'Connell and stopped in some shops and found they had much finer things available than in Derry. Joanna was looking for earrings to convince herself that she should pierce her ears, but seemed unable to find anything to her liking. Then we found a shop on a side alley that offered not only the earrings but piercings, as well.
She was still thinking about it when I noticed in the back they offered tattoos. I looked through the book of them, wondering at some of the designs of anchors and dates and animals and the like -- until I came to a section of lettering. In it was a lovely flowing script, like handwriting would be if made perfect, and I got an idea.

“Joanna, what would you think of me with a tattoo?”

“My father has one from his time in the Navy,” was her absent reply. “Got it in Hong Kong, of a half-naked lady. It’s begun to fade.”

“Does he have any names on him?”

“Names? Tattooed? No. Why?”

I turned to the girl at the counter and asked, “How much is one?”

“Depends on what you get,” she said.

“A name. Six letters here.” I motioned across my left upper arm.

“Which lettering?” she asked as she came over.

“Brendan, what’re you doing?” Joanna asked, coming close.

“Dunno yet,” I said, then I pointed to the script.

She eyed my upper arm and said, “Three punt.”

“How long would it take?” I asked.

“Just over an hour.”

I had five punt on me and twelve British pounds, which I’ve found they take anywhere in the city, so I said, “Do it.”

Joanna’s mouth dropped open. “Brendan...”

“What age are you?” the girl asked.

“Seventeen,” I said, without hesitation.

She eyed me, unsure. “You look younger.”

I took my coolest pose and shot back at her, “We’re down from Derry looking at Trinity College. We’re applying to attend, next year, and wanted to see more about it. Isn’t that so, Joanna?”

She looked at me, wary, then nodded. “Though I’m not decided. I’m also considering St. Andrew’s.”

The girl shrugged, called into the back and a man the size of Mrs. McKittrick’s house come out. I actually swallowed in nervousness at seeing him. “He wants a tatt -- right here.” She patted her left upper arm. “In lettering E-6.”

“Spell it out,” he said, shoving a slip of paper at me.

I did so.

Joanna was speechless for the first few minutes, then as I was handing over the money she turned me to her and said, “Are you daft? You can’t take these things off.”

“I’ll never want it off,” I replied.

“Brendan, this is foolish. How’ll you explain this to your mother? To anyone -- ?”

“There‘s nothing to explain. Nothing. I love you, Joanna. I will till the day I die. Nothing else matters.”

She shook her head, still wary, but smiled.

The man and the girl smirked at each other and I knew why, but I also knew how deep my feelings for Joanna were and no one could have swayed me from this course.

“Off wit’ ye shirt,” growled the man.

I removed it and sat beside him. “Does it hurt much?”

He smiled and said, “Put ye arm here, hold this grip an’ do NOT move.” I did as he said, and he started the needle up and dug in and I near screamed at the sudden pain of it. “Do not MOVE!”

I didn’t. I sat there and locked my eyes on Joanna’s and crushed that grip and she held my other hand and my focus stayed on keeping from crushing hers.

“Brendan, you’re mad,” she whispered to me, smiling in admiration. “Wicked mad.”

“Have been since the first day I saw you.”

“When was that?”
"Don't you remember -- me bein' that urchin in the street your Ma told you not to make fun of?"
She nodded. Then I told her of seeing her on Shipquay Street and following her into Woollies and what album she bought and how I’d bought the same and the phonograph I’d fixed so’s I could listen to it and how I’d seared the words and music into my heart and sung it when I wanted to see her, and this was a year before the Liberation Fleadh. And she just sat there, listening to me, looking at me, seeing me and seeming fascinated by my sordid little tales.
Of course, I said nothing about the nights where I’d conjured her up for my own pleasure. And her eyes never wavered from my face. And the pain seemed to lessen to the point I could hardly feel it, at all. The girl behind the counter said nothing, and the burly man working my newest disfigurement seemed to grow more gentle. All as I recounted how I felt around her. How my heart leapt from joy at seeing her every time we met. How I hated parting from her. On and on I babbled, as if the needle carried a drug in it instead of ink, and by the time he was done digging and swiping and outlining and filling in, I was hoarse from talking so much. 
The girl behind the counter brought us cups of tea and never had anything felt so good on my throat or tasted so fine on my tongue. And I could speak no more, but it was all right, for the burly man did one last wipe of his work and leaned back to smile and said, “Well done, lad. Would ye care to look at it before I cover it? Last chance for maybe ten days.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It’ll become a scab as it heals, then it’ll peel away and what you’ll have will be as lovely as what ye see now.”

I nodded and he put up a mirror, and I laughed. “It’s backwards.”

He chuckled and angled the mirror then put up another to catch the first one’s reflection. And oh St. Brigit, how lovely it was. Script flowing together in tender darkness, the hint of an outline in red along the top. Dots of blood that he quickly wiped away. I drew in so deep a breath of pride, I could easily have burst, and I turned to show Joanna her new place in my soul.

She touched it, tenderly. “Does it hurt?”

Yes. “Never. I’m yours now, no matter what. You’ve branded me.”

She looked at me with eyes so filled with confusion and wariness, I grew afraid. Thought for an instant I’d made a fool of myself. Gone that one step too far for her, or done it too soon or too suddenly. Now she’d back away from me for being too much a child in matters of the heart, still. Dear God, I think I’d die if that happened. But then she leaned in and kissed it. Barely brushed her lips over the raw etching, and relief overwhelmed me. I lay my head in the crook of her neck and let out my breath, finally knowing all would be well.

I hate MacBook Pro...

I've spent most of the evening reconstructing my links and passwords, because for some reason, every one of my saved passcodes was wiped out and some of the sites I visit required me to set up new ones. I couldn't even get into the correct page on my blog for an hour because it refused to open; it kept trying to get me to start a new blog and telling me I had the wrong password. I finally got into it by getting a gmail address and changing it to that and then returning to an old passcode...and for some damned reason, it worked.

I don't know what the hell is going on with this piece of shit laptop, but since getting it I've had issue after issue. It's taken me months to even begin to get used to the flat keys. The limitation of not having USB ports has been a hundred times more problematic than I thought it would be. I've had it freeze up to where I couldn't do anything...six times. And when I connected an external hard drive to use as a memory backup, the wifi flipped out. Hell, I even have trouble ejecting flash drives from the USB extension I bought; half the time it tells me the drive is in use even though I've closed out everything that I was doing on it.

Maybe I've got a lemon, I don't know...but I do know I am no longer confident in this thing. My 10-year-old MacBook was a hundred times better than this piece of shit. I'm damned close to sending it back to Apple and telling them I want a real computer and not this toy.

I think I'm going back to my MacBook to work on PS. If there's anything I don't want to have to deal with while dealing with Brendan, it's a prima donna piece of electronics. I have enough trouble in in life without wondering if I'm going to lose all my data, some day. It was traumatic enough that I lost some on a damaged thumb drive.

Shit, why can't life be simple?

Weird, weird, weird little me...

I was in an apathetic mood, much of the day...which is an improvement over how I felt, yesterday.  But it's been quite the roller-coaster, and for once none of it's thanks to PS or my writing in general...but work on the book became non-existent, so it's involved, too...and this sentence makes no sense. Let's start over.

It started with a strange health situation, yesterday about noon. I started to feel sweaty then became light-headed and suddenly I was starving. I calmed it down by eating some dried cranberries and having a cup of hot tea, but then I began craving Mexican food so much, I drove 10 miles to an OK Mexican restaurant and had decent enough cheese enchiladas, rice, beans and guac along with a Dos Equis...and began to feel good, again.

I grabbed some groceries and drove home, then wound up so weary, I had to take a nap. When I woke up, I was so deeply depressed I couldn't focus on anything. I managed to get some reading done and a bit of research...but didn't touch the outline or write a word. I just wallowed in my misery till it was time to get to bed...and then I couldn't sleep.

And by couldn't sleep, I don't call it insomnia because I know people who have that and it's hellacious. For me, it was taking over an hour to drift off when I'm normally deep into slumber-ville within 5 minutes of hitting the pillow. And it's not like my mind was racing; it was more of a blank that just would not take the final step to shut down.

Then today I had to go to work. The one positive was, I was alone in the office. My co-worker had a fender-bender so called in, and both the owners are in NYC laying the groundwork for next year's book fair. I had a bit to do so got it done, despite my sense of apathy, then as I came home I decided I wanted a chili dog. So got 2 and fries and brought them home and scarfed them down and felt a thousand times better. I want another one, tomorrow.

Man, I can still taste the chili and onions and Tabasco I put on it...but it killed my mood. Let me see that I haven't been eating like I should...and by that I mean I've been trying to cut back and eat better meals, and my body was freaking out and didn't like it and finally said, Enough! The enchilada meal was a good start to satisfying it, but it was the chili dogs that settled it down.

I guess I'm never going to diet, because when I do my body rebels. I work out...and I get a cold. I cut back my caloric intake, and I start feeling weak and unhappy. I'm pre-diabetic; maybe I finally toppled over into it. But eating crap just because it's good for you is the antithesis of how I've lived my life. And my DNA is saying, STFU and stop trying to be good; you're not.

And I don't mind that idea, at all.

Have to keep reminding me...

This is going to be a long haul...and the more I dig into what I've got and what I think I had, the more sure I am I'll be working on this book for the next 15 years. I've got to go through every single Word doc I have because while most of it's repetitive, some of it's not and is bits I need or want or have an idea will help...and some of the bits I remember writing, I can't find so have to dig even more into my trove of thumb-drives to seek out.

Well...I never have been very organized. Hell, the fact that I can find anything is often a miracle. The positive thing is, I've learned the jail on Crumlin Road, in Belfast, is now a sort of museum. It's got me wanting to go back to Belfast to look into it, because in the last section of the book, Brendan is taken there for interrogation by the British.

I keep halfway wanting to shift this book into third person, in its telling, but Brendan doesn't like that. "It's my blood, my story, no one else's, and what people glean for the lives of the other people I know is up to them...but it's filtered through me." I have to honor that. If I don't, it'll be crap.

I joke about this being my Russian novel, but I'm beginning to see it probably will be...in size and form. Dunno about depth, yet. There's a lot that can't be...or isn't being said, in the open, but is still trying to be known. And the new ending...the ending Brendan's brought to me, recently...is still spooking me. I haven't touched it, yet, except to make notes.

Of course, this is a two-way street, with him. He wants to screw with my brain? I'm gonna mess with his. See how he likes it.

So tell me, do I sound psychotic, yet?

Brendan's world...

Working on the outline, so not up for posting...just sharing something I'd already written. This is Fall, 1968. Danny's a long-time friend of Brendan's, very troubled and running with a new crowd...

-------

As we left the city’s edge, the fog all but vanished. There was no moon out but it was still a bright enough night to see across the parcels of land and beyond the clumps of trees, and because the silence was cut only by the sound of our shoes on the road, it seemed as if we’d been taken to a new and amazing world of peace and tolerance. I don't know where it came from, but for the first time I got the urge to just keep walking till I could walk no more.

Finally, we cut down this road that curled around and up a hill, and after a bit I could make out a round shape at the top of it, to our right. There wasn’t a tree near it and the wind was brisk and bit at my cheeks. I had my Anorak on tight, then, but Danny was in just a jacket and seemed untouched by the chill.

“Is that it?” I asked, my voice sudden and sharp against the quiet.

“Yeah,” said Danny. “I think it was a fort, once. It’s got walkways going up, inside.”

“How long you been coming here?”

“A year.”

“Bloody hell, Danny, you keep your own counsel, don’t you?”

“I like being alone.”

“Then why’d you show it to your mates?”

“I didn’t,” he said with a sigh. “It’s not like it’s a secret. They found me there, one night. We hit it off.”

Then I heard an odd swishing sound and turned just as a Schwinn bicycle raced up the gravel road and whipped past us, its pilot laughing. Another boy was on the handlebars. A moment behind them was a Huffy Penguin, with a second lad seated on the rear of the banana seat. They stopped a bit ahead of us and jumped off their bikes, waving at Danny.

“Hey, Danny-boy, who’s the lad!” shouted the one who’d piloted the Penguin.

“It’s Brendan,” he called back. “I told you of him!”

They came down the hill a bit to meet us, one tall, two my height, one smaller than Maeve, all dark and slim and looking a lot like brothers. It was the same group who’d been chased by the peelers. Their clothes were flashy and neat, something I hadn’t noticed when they ran past, and their faces were all grins as the tall one grabbed my hand, saying, “So you’re the famous fix-anything lad.”

“Can you work on the gears on me bike? They rattle something awful,” said one my size, who was the darkest. The other one my size was fairer and freckled.

I shrugged and said, “Won’t know till I see it.”

“I’m Tommy,” said the tall one, “and this is Aiden.” He pointed to the one with the Schwinn then to his mate in size, who’d piloted the Huffy. “That’s Sean. And last is Brian.”

“Boru to yous,” said the smallest lad, whose pants were actually a few inches too short for him and whose boots made his feet look comical in size.

“And Saint Brendan to you,” said I, in return. "I've an uncle named Sean."

"Who doesn't?" Sean shot back.

They laughed and we cut through what I think was heather up the last of the hill to the fort. Whatever it was, it was thick and grabbed at my trousers.

“I think I know your brother, Eamonn,” Said Tommy. “He’s at Queen's, inn’t he?”

“First term,” I said, nodding, suddenly remembering what I’d seen in the window. “He -- he’s home, for the weekend. I -- I don’t recall you being around.”

“I met him on the march to Dungiven. He’s a passionate one. When things threatened to get hard between us and the RUC, he helped convince us to back down.”

“You should’ve torn those bloody peelers apart,” snapped Brian.

“Plenty of time for that.”

“Um -- Eamonn thinks O’Neill will work with us,” I said.

“Give the country over?” laughed Sean.

“That bastard, Paisley, wouldn’t let him,” said Aiden.

“Not after Antrim,” said Tommy.

“Were you there?” I asked.

“Torched one of the RUC’s tenders,” he said, proudly. “News crews snapped photos of it for the papers.”

“He’s got a bloody scrapbook,” said Brian.

“For history, me lad!”

We reached the base of the fort and circled around to a tiny opening covered with a grate. Tommy undid a couple of bolts and pulled it partway off, then held it aside as we scampered through this cave-like passageway to the middle of the circle.

Danny wasn’t kidding; it did used to be a fort, with stone steps leading up to three levels of walkways. The uppermost one was only a few feet under the top so it looked as if you could lean on its walls and look out over the whole of Ireland. It was only later I learned we were in Grianán Aileach.

Before I could say a word, Tommy’d slipped a stone away from the base of a wall to let Brian dive into it, and moments later, out popped a bottle of whiskey and a fat bag of tobacco. “Still here,” he said, happily.

Brian vanished back inside the hole and brought out another bottle and laughed, “Irish!”

“Have a care, lads,” said Danny. “If too much is gone, it’ll be noticed and then it’ll all vanish.”

“Danny,” I said, “this isn’t your stash?”

He shook his head.

Tommy finished taking a swig of the whiskey and offered us the bottle, saying, “Finders keepers, you know.”

Danny downed some then handed it to me. I didn’t want anyone to think I wasn’t as much a man as them, so I took a swallow...and near choked on the sudden sharpness of it.

Brian smirked at me. “Can’t hold his liquor.”

“I’m holding it fine,” I snapped back. “I just -- I don’t drink out of a bottle.”

Tommy winked at me and said, “You’ll learn.”

I noticed Aiden and Sean were busy rolling fags, so I took the moment to ask Danny, “What is this?”

He shrugged. “I was up here lying on the top circle, just looking at the stars, and some men snuck in. I kept hid and watched them pull that stone away. After they left, I looked into it. They’d hollowed out part of the wall and used it to hide things in. I guess it’s stuff they’re smuggling into Derry. Not paying taxes on it. Making a fortune.”

“But all this way, so far from everything. It doesn’t make sense.” I looked around the rocks, the whiskey building a nice warmth in my belly. “This place is kept up, Danny. Eventually someone’s gonna find that loose rock and brick it over.”

Danny shrugged in answer.

Brian fired up a fag and inhaled, but the didn’t exhale. Tommy did the same thing, after him, then he offered it to me. It didn’t smell like any cigarette I’d ever had, but I still took a puff and Tommy laughed at me.

“His first drink and his first smoke,” he chuckled.

“I’ve smoked before,” I said, irritated.

Danny took the fag, saying, “Like this, Bren.” Then he inhaled and held his breath ... and held it and held it until I thought he’d pass out before he exhaled and choked out, “Here,” as he handed it back to me.

I took the smoke in and held it as long as I could, handing the fag off to Tommy, who carted it over to Sean. When I finally let it explode from my lungs, I was starting to feel dizzy.

“It’s best to lie back, Bren,” said Danny. “Look at the stars. You’ll never see the like of them, again.”

I lay on the grass and gazed upwards, and he was right; suddenly, it was as if the heavens were fresh and new...bright, gleaming little diamonds captured in the black, black sky and so glorious brilliant. A billion of them, it must be. Then they moved...and I had to hold onto the earth as it spun.

“Christ, Danny,” I whispered, “what is this?”

“Something to make the world a better place,” he whispered back, and I’d say he was only half talking to me.

The bottle came my way, again, so I sat up and sipped more carefully, this time. It was a smoother sort of whiskey, more flavorful. I offered it up to Danny but he waved me off, opting instead for another drag on the fag. I giggled at the rhyme, and then couldn’t stop giggling.

Tommy sat beside me and took the bottle then offered me a fresh ciggie as he looked at the label.

“Bourbon,” he said as I inhaled. His tone became too-properly-British as he continued with, “A good Protestant drink, I’d say.”

“Naw, it’s Scotch that is,” snapped Brian.

“Don’t like Scotch,” said Aiden.

“Da says you have to build a taste for it,” added Sean. “But why? If you don’t like it to start off with, why make yourself drink it?”

“’Cause you’re an eejit,” laughed Tommy.

“Bloody right about that,” snapped an angry voice.

I jolted around to see -- it was Colm standing by the passageway, and he looked so angry I had to laugh, “Howya, Colm, come to join the party?”

Do I dream in parallels?

I'm having some very odd dreams, lately...like I'm on a film set but in front of the camera in a smaller role. Acting. Something I know I'm not good at and have never wanted to pursue. I did some in college to try and break me out of my shyness...and it helped...except when I got the reviews back and found I wasn't the only one questioning my abilities in that realm. But in truth, I didn't have the focus needed for it. I was in a comedy and most of my effort went to keeping myself from laughing at my own lines.

Now, all of a sudden, I'm waking up from moments in my slumbering brain that can only be explained by them being a movie. Sitting and talking with Russell Tovey? Walking into a room of men dressing for their characters? Though that one might have been for a play...but I really don't remember. I do recall getting a costume from a closet just as I was awoken by my alarm.

I've often wondered if the occasional deja vu I feel stems from dreams that sort of prefigure my life. Especially the vivid ones. There was one from years and years ago that still haunts me. I'm driving across a bridge high above a lake or river and it buckles and cars are tossed into the water, mine included. I get out and swim for shore as fast as I can because a shark is after me...which is funny because I can't swim. But I make it. Now here it is decades later and nothing even remotely similar has happened. However, that dream was so intense, I still think of it when I'm driving across a bridge over water.

I don't know what these things are supposed to mean; I've never really done the dream therapy/explanation thing. I just know the ones that are truly scary I don't remember; all I do is jolt awake and I'm freaked out. Those are few and far between so I don't worry about them, but all these recent ones have me confused. Am I telling myself I should not have given up on film?

That'd be silly. It took me long enough to get it through my thick skull no one wanted my scripts and I had no idea how to change their minds. And no way was I chasing an acting career; that's filled with a thousand times more rejection than I ever experienced. Now maybe I'm subconsciously saying I should have?

Man...I do confuse me, sometimes.