Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 40

Speaking softly...

It seems this part of the story wants to be low-key yet deeply connected to Brendan's emotional state. When he's in control and moving along, it does the same. When he's in turmoil, so is the telling of it. In the part I was working on, today, he's sitting in his mother's bedroom, watching her sleep the day away, and using the time to plan his research over the following week.

Maeve is at the Orchard Street market the other side of the walls and Brendan, as Jeremy, is thinking. Remembering. Wondering. I don't yet know if he will ever have a full answer to his questions, but at least they need to be posed. And this quiet time feels right and proper for that to happen.

I'm at 85,500 words, now, and think this may wind up about 125,000 total. And what's happening now is beginning to make me wonder about the ending I've already written. If it's where the story will still wind up. I still think everything leads to it, but you never know.

I'm currently being inundated by pleas for money by Democrats, 90% of whom I've never even heard of. They're in other states running for the Senate or the House as well as councilman and mayor and state legislature person and on and on. And of course, every one of them is claiming if i don't give them $3-25, we will lose control of Congress in November. Make it a weekly donation, to be safe.

I made the mistake of giving to 2 Democrats I supported several years ago, and this is what happens. Well, I'm being an asshole and telling them any donations I make are going to help Ukraine fight Russia's terrorism. The Biden administration won't let Ukraine use US weaponry against Russia's bomber bases, deep inside the country. They're the ones launching cruise missiles at Ukraine's cities, bombing houses, markets, hospitals, schools and people out in the open...and all Ukraine can do is throw drones at them.

I don't have a lot to give, but it's going to where it's needed, not to people who cannot beat the shit out of a convicted felon and his vile party without whining about needing more support.

Shifting tides...

 In the world of serendipity and muses, I sometimes play...and happen upon moments that make my work come alive in my own head. It's one thing to write out a portion of a book. It's quite another to make it real and interesting. And that happened, today. As seen, below:

-----

So Maeve began with reading the minutes of the previous meeting. I had my tape recorder going, the mike pointed to the front, when I was joined by that officious-looking gentleman, to whom I was never introduced and who never did tell me his name. 

“Amazing,” he said, “how minimal these things have become.” 

I managed to remember to use my twang as I asked, “Beg pardon?” 

“So...you’re the American,” he said in a soft condescending tone. 

I nodded and said, “I’m Jeremy—” 

He looked away and back over the crowd. “Come to watch us twist in the wind, have you?” 

“I-I’m doin’ research on—” 

“Research.” His voice dripped with disdain. “That’s all anyone ever does, anymore, is research things. Look into what’s happened. Consider the options. And let the world burn as they talk and talk and talk. But that’s the Irish for you. They love to talk.” He turned a cold eye on me. “I understand you’re housed with one of the leaders.”

That made me blink. “I’m boardin’ with some--” 

“Rather sad,” he said, ignoring me. “Mother’s dying. Cancer or something. Father long dead. One of those Republican sorts.” 

I just nodded, because I did not like this man and feared I might say something to reveal myself. 

He cast me a glance then turned back to the group. “Killed, as I recall. Some IRA patriot, who got found out and done away with, or something.” 

Now that piqued my curiosity. I shunted my irritation with the bastard aside. “He was?” 

He nodded, not really paying attention to me. “That’s how those people are. Get a few drinks in them, they start bragging on themselves or telling stories of what they’d done.” He turned back to me and tapped on my tape recorder. “When I was at university, the machines we had were massive things. Supposedly portable, but weighed a ton. And were reel-to-reel. These are much better. Easier.”

“Wh-what school’d you go to?” I asked, soft and careful. 

“Ulster. At Coleraine. In the second graduating class.” He grew a bit distant. “A friend of mine liked to go around recording things. Stories. Songs. Meetings like this. Using that bloody...oh, what was it? Not a Nagra; that was later. Doesn’t matter. He was killed by the IRA. Driving home. Bloody papists.” 

I took in a deep breath, as soft and easy as I could. 

He gave me a hard frown and said, “You’re the Jewish lad, aren’t you?” 

All I could do was nod. 

“Then you’ll understand the issue here,” said, turning back to the crowd. “These bloody papists are just as hard to control as the bloody Palestinians. Running all over the world, killing in the name of peace. Disgraceful. Don’t let them fool you with their claims of wanting love for all. They won’t be happy till we’re part of the bloody Republic and under the thumb of Rome.” 

“I-I-I don’t understand. If you feel like this, why you lettin’ them use this room for the meetin’?” And I was laying the Texas on a bit thick. 

“If I had my choice, they wouldn’t be here. Let them hold it in one of their bloody church halls. But it was thought using Guildhall was a good compromise. Make it more likely people from the Waterside would show, as some have.” Then a small smirk crossed his lips. “It’ll be interesting to see how many show, next time.” He turned back to me. “Have you had any difficulty, staying in the Bogside?” 

I shook my head. “Everybody’s been real nice.” 

“Because they know you’re American. They wouldn’t want any bad publicity from you being hurt. Even if you are a Jew. Just take care. You can’t trust these bloody bastards.” 

Then he slipped away, and I felt as if I’d just been molested. 

God, was it ever illuminating to hear the true version of Protestant hate, direct from the horse’s mouth. Of course, I’d missed everything that was being said in the meeting, thanks to that man, but my tape recorder was still going. My hope was that it caught some of the talk. Still, I had a feeling that man’s voice had drowned out much of what was being said. 

At the moment, they were discussing either a caravan of cars or hiring a bus and going to the Maze to demonstrate their solidarity with Bobby. But with signs reading Give Peace a Chance and Working Together Makes Us Stronger and the like. All very nice, but not one of the Protestants seemed interested in joining on the journey. 

Give peace a chance. Lovely thought that hadn’t kept John Lennon from being shot, and--

Father Jack rushed past me to enter the room, removing his coat as he went.

Oh, shit, shit, shit. Maeve had said nothing about him being part of this. If she had, I wouldn’t have come; I wasn’t ready for him, yet. Shit! 

I managed to back deeper into a shadow then sneak along the wall to work my way out into the hall before he could see me, then I scurried outside. Fired up a Marlboro as my excuse. 

 Father Jack, still in the middle of things, as always. I mean, sure he’d probably heard of a visitor from America, and without question he would know who I truly was the moment he saw me. I just needed him to be informed about the situation, first. 

My hand was shaking so it took two matches to light up and then three good drags for me to even start to calm down. Christ, what I would have given for one of my emergency joints, just then. 

I noticed a couple of people looking at me, oddly, so I set to walking up Foyle Street, past the car park and bus depot. A couple of squaddies saw me but one had been the recipient of my smokes, earlier, so tossed me a wave. I grinned and waved back, glad he was across the street and unable to see the state I was in.

I forced myself to start thinking about what that man had said, so rewound the cassette, plugged my earphone into it and played back everything. Listened carefully, especially to his comment about Da being caught out as an IRA man, or something. 

That played on me. Reminded me of what that guy in the pub had said. What was his name? Perrin? Talking about how people talked too much, and some lad was recording their stories? 

Da’s injuries...even what little I’d known and remembered, it seemed to me he’d been tortured before he was killed. To the point we had to have a closed casket. No one believed it had just been fun gone out of control, but the excuse used was that he’d been a Catholic and that's why those two mental defectives had wanted to murder him. That the authorities hadn’t wanted to deal with anything more than his death, and not the politics of it, was all too typical.

Beyond the bus depot, I passed a fountain and came up on a garden planter built of brick by a long white wall and sat on a bench, at one end of it. Pulled out my note pad and began scribbling note after note in it, posing questions I had no way of finding out the answers to. Not with certainty. Because the fact was, much of what both that man and Perrin had said was gossip colored by memories. Third hand? Fourth hand? One-hundred and ninety-seventh hand? Who knew? Not exactly reliable information. 

I decided to return to the Derry Journal and look deeper into the stories about Da’s death. See if they had any stories about the university seeking out old stories. Check with the university, itself, to find out if there ever was someone with a tape recorder traveling around the Bogside asking for verbal tales. Which, now thinking about it, did seem a bit wild. Especially as Da’s stories were massive messes of details mixed about. From what little I remembered.Still, it was something to consider, and might give me a better idea of just who he was. You never know. 

I rose to head back to the Guildhall and finally noticed that white wall was actually a sculpture of interlocking blocks, about twice my height and nicely done. The main part was recessed from the sidewalk, but two section blocks of it were positioned out from it to flank an entrance to a park, at each end of the sculpture. I noticed a plaque said it was City People sculpture. Another new aspect of Derry, but one of the few that made sense. 

It put a smile on my face, and I headed back to the Guildhall with a plan of action. As I crossed Shipquay, I noticed a couple people from the meeting coming out, so crushed my cigarette...and realized I’d gone through half the pack, without thinking. That would not do.

I didn’t feel like heading inside so walked around in front. Saw a bus for Shantalow across the way get stopped by a couple of the meeting people, who’d run across to it. Once aboard, it toddled on as others growled past. 

Then it finally hit me--the City Hotel had been where that car park now was. God, there was going to be change in Derry, whether they wanted it or not.

Remembrances...

This is what I'm circling in on, between Brendan and his mother...and wondering if it's too quiet and off-center.

---

“How’re you feelin'?” I asked Ma, keeping my twang. 

She only shrugged. “I may want some of the Percocet.” Then she saw the Bass and her eyes grew sharp. “Or maybe not. Just yet.” 

I offered her the can, without a thought. She took it with both hands. And had a sip. Barely wet her lips. Then she let out a mournful sigh and offered it back to me. “The taste is wrong. Like drinkin’ tin. Awful.” 

“There’s some Carling in a bottle.” 

“That’e even worse.” 

“Does the medicine do that?” 

She nodded. “Nothing tastes right, anymore. Even the lemon water’s startin’ to go off on me. How I used to love makin' fry-ups and feastin’ on them. Blood pudding. Beans on toast. Even dinner from the chippy. Or pasta and sauce. Simple tea and toast burned over the fire. None of it’s right, anymore.” 

I sat in the chair Aura’d been in. “What else would you like to eat?” 

“No matter. The less taste there is to it, the better.” 

“How about a potato mashed, with some cheese?” 

She cast me a wary look. “Mashed?” 

“Like creamed potatoes.” 

She shrugged. “I have to eat somethin’, I suppose.” 

“I’ll bring some up, shortly.” 

“I hear Kieran, downstairs,” she said with a near smile. “Let him bring it. He’ll have all the gossip of the day. Better news about the strikes. Things you wouldn’t have access to, Jeremy.” 

Jeremy. And she was serious about calling me that. No hesitation. 

“Mrs. Kinsella,” I asked, carefully, “what do you remember about the bombing Brendan was caught in?” 

That took her a bit aback. “Brendan? What’s he to do with anything?”

I decided to push it. “Third child? Second son?” 

She cut me off with a huff. “Runnin’ away from home like a spoiled child. He always was that. No shock he got hurt. He knew nothin’ of the world.” 

“I...I understand he was badly hurt.” 

“Stupid men.” She grew confused. “Was it a bomb hurt him? Did they tell me that? No. No, he was hurt and they wanted him dead and I had to stop them. Didn’t care about any of the rest. Didn’t even call a doctor for him till I made them. Bastards. It was my husband stopped ‘em. My Eamonn.” 

What? “Your husband?” 

She almost smiled. “My Eamonn stopped them. They knew not to cross him.” 

”Eamonn Kinsella?” 

“That’s him. How he was.” 

“What...what can you tell me about him?” 

“My Eamonn. Always there for the cause. Bold and strong, he was. Beautiful man. Enough said about that.” 

“Well, when did you get married?” 

Her expression grew confused. Distant. “Married? Married to my Eamonn? Oh, he was such a fine man, back then. Tall. Strong shoulders. Mari was so jealous of me, havin’ him. Belfast was such a city, back then. Even for us.” 

Belfast? “You weren’t living in Derry, when you were married?” 

She rubbed her eyes. “Of course we were. Twelve years we had. De Valera come to Derry. I showed him my Eamonn. First born and so beautiful. To see my Brendan, next to him...it was like a punishment.” 

I had to draw in a breathe and grip the can with both hands to keep from saying anything, in answer. 

 “I wanted to go back to Belfast, but it was too late. Word was around.” She looked at me, so lost and innocent in her expression. “What did you ask me, Jeremy?” 

It took me a moment to answer. “When were you married?” 

“Why? Why ask that? My Eamonn is dead. Fifteen years dead. Why do you want to know?” 

“It...uh...it would be a nice detail to add to my paper.” 

She nodded, almost like she was saying Ah-ha. “For your schoolin’. Tellin’ tales. Are they good ones? My Eamonn used to tell tales. People sought him out to tell them. To sing. All the old songs. The old stories. He knew them all. Told them all, and so well. His face open. His eyes bright. ” 

“He told a lot of them?” 

She didn’t seem to hear me. Her fingers began to dance at the air. “I met him as a dancer. On a stage. He would speak and people would stop to listen. His voice soft, almost like music. Three girls and I...we danced after him. Once his story was done. We all thought he was fine. So beautiful as he spoke.” 

“When was this? Were you at a fair? In Derry? Belfast?” 

“The nuns didn’t like him. Thought him wicked. Kept me away from him as much as they could. He laughed at them. What a lovely laugh he had. I joined him and listened so happily to him. The music of his voice. The loveliness of his touch. They wanted to send me to another home, when I was with my first.” 

She took my hand, with movements so delicate they were like a whisper. “I was a good dancer. Especially at Sean Nós. Even after my second, I could still do a fine Céilí, and did at a few fetes. It was the third one ruined it for me.”She drifted back in her bed, as if in surrender.“My poor little Brendan. He had no interest in bein’ part of this world. So never was, truly. It was hard to believe he was mine. Was my Eamonn’s. Many wondered, considerin’ the start of our marriage. It’s always on the woman for gossip such as that...” 

She seemed to surround herself in silence, her eyes looking at something a thousand miles away. 

I kept my voice soft, so as not to bring her out of her memories. “What was the start of your marriage?” 

She almost smiled. “A lovely wet Spring day. I wore a cloak, give me by Sister Luke, to hide within. It wasn’t a priest married us. It was a man behind a counter. Mari laughed at him. Said he reminded her of Scrooge. So silly. He cast her a stern look, to hush her. It only made her giggle, the more.” 

“Where did it take place?” 

“Beautiful country. Magherafelt. No one knew us, there. Sister Luke took pity and helped us. On the bus. Mari in a seat next to her. Us right behind. Quiet. All done so quiet. And I was glad for it. 

“So happy, we were, in two rooms off Falls Road. Lovely neighbors. Him doin’ well at the docks. With our wee Eamonn. Then Mairead.” 

A cloud grew in her eyes. Crossing her face. Sadness with it, and more than a little confusion. She looked at her hands, and they were shivering. She clasped them together, almost in prayer, and looked at me. “Is there some lemon water? And my pill...where is Maeve?” 

I took in a deep breath and smiled, saying in my Texas tones, “In the kitchen, fixing dinner. Want me to fetch her?” 

She seemed to finally see me and grew close to tears. “You’re a sweet boy. Not like my Brendan. He was a cat and we were all his dogs. Where’s Maeve?” 

I rose, saying, “I’ll get her for you.” 

“Some lemon water. It’s no good, but it’s all I can do.” 

I went downstairs and found Maeve portioning out the haddock. “She’s asking for you,” I said. “Wants that lemonade and a pill?” 

She nodded. “She’s in pain, then.” She handed me the skillet. “Help yourself.” 

“I’ll bring up a potato,” I said. 

“I do that!” Kieran snapped. “Ma don’t want you here.” 

I rolled my eyes and snarled, “But I’m not here, am I?” 

I turned to Maeve, who was pouring out a glass of that hideous water, and said, “If she says any more about her wedding, please let me know.” 

“Why you asking about that?” she said, not looking at me. 

“Maeve, do you ever recall our parents celebrating their wedding anniversary? What day it was?” 

“No...but I was hardly old enough to notice, wasn’t I. Have you asked Mairead or Aunt Mari?” 

I shook my head and portioned half the haddock on my plate then added peas and half a potato. “It’s something I just wondered about. I can check with the registrar’s office, I guess.” 

Kieran had wolfed his dinner down so hopped into the parlor to grab a potato and wrap it in a cloth. Then he plopped it on a plate, cut it into pieces with a knife the added a pat of butter before grabbing the glass of lemon water and bolting upstairs. 

I heard Ma joyously greet him as if he’d been gone for years instead of me. Her first words? “Who was that man just in here?” 

Kieran’s response? “Nobody, Ma.”Then they spoke in voices too low to be heard. 

“He’s a trial for you, isn’t he, Maeve?” 

“As I said, he gets her to eat and take her other meds. But she’s close to the point where they won’t be needed...” 

I nodded. 

“Bren...Jeremy, why’re after knowing when Ma and Da were wed?” 

“Something she said...that when I was hurt, Da stopped them from letting me die. Which doesn’t make sense. He’d been dead near seven years. So I want to look into it. Tomorrow, I’m off to Magherafelt.” 

“When will you be back?”

She asked as she sat down to eat, a Carling in hand. 

“Just there and back. Just to check a few things...no, wait, tomorrow’s Saturday. I’ll have to go Monday. Will that work all right with you?” 

She nodded. “I was hoping to go to market, tomorrow. There’s one the other side of the Diamond and...” 

“Go. I’ll be with Ma. Maybe get more out of her.” 

“Before she’s gone?” 

“She’s not one to give much information over, but when she’s lost in a haze of memory, it comes out.” 

“Why’re askin’ for all this?” 

“To understand. You remember how she treated me, don’t you?”She had to nod, at that.“She almost told me why. Almost. And I...I’d just like to what I’d done to cause it. Aside from being born.” 

“Some things cannot be explained.” 

I nodded. “I still want to try.”

Circling...

Still working on Brendan dealing with learning Joanna's alive, but he's also unable to find where she lives now and wants to speak with Colm about it...as well as his mother, but she keeps drifting in and out of awareness.

I am closer to getting this section into a position where I'm comfortable with it. APoS-HNH has worked its way back up to 84,000 words and still more to add.

Brendan's learned where his parents were married but not really when, so he's taking a day trip to the place. He knows the name of the nun that accompanied them from the orphanage, along with his aunt. And an aside mentioned by Ma during one of her rants hints to him that it was his father who really kept him alive. Even though the man had been dead nearly seven years.

More of the ghosts aspect working it was in, without my guidance. I like that. Plus this focus to learn more about his father adds to the impression he's building in people that he's an American working on his thesis, and so far no one has acted like they know who he really is.

He's also building a slight rapport with the army lads at the checkpoints, mainly through letting them smoke his Marlboros, and he's finding out they're as unhappy to be there as the Catholics are unhappy they are there.

A good thing today -- apparently someone found my envelope from the Library of Congress and gave it to the postman, because it was in my mailbox, this afternoon. And I know damn well it wasn't there last night. I went down at 2am to check through a pile of recycling and checked the box, just to make sure. What ever happened, I've got my document and am sorely relieved.

I celebrated by making Ghirardelli chocolate brownies...and they're too damn sweet for me. I've pulled back from eating candy and cookies and such, very much, and now can't really handle something that sugar-concentrated. Damn diabetes.

Still, my blood sugar's under control so I guess that's good.

Writing in spite of life's bullshit...

Well...After discussion with Avis I am out $180 for a ticket that I know is bullshit. But since I was in a rental car, the ticket was written to Avis, not me, and paid by Avis, not me, so I can't fight it. I can't do a damn thing except bitch, whine and complain...and pay the fucking money. If I don't, Avis will turn me over to a collection agency and my credit will get screwed up.

On another note, a DVD of DeadPool 2 I ordered is now officially lost or stolen in transit. Ebay first told me they were not going to give me a refund for it because the PO said it had been delivered...even though it hadn't been. But I got an email from the PO agreeing it had not so sent them that and they didn't have any option. But it had been difficult finding a copy of that DVD that wasn't Korean or Australian...and now have to start over.

On top of that, I ran out to a grocery store to get milk, and checked my mail as I was leaving. I got my certificate of copyright from the Library of Congress for APoS-NWFO, so took it with me. Put it in my grocery bag for safe-keeping...and when I got home could not find it. Anywhere.

I checked my car. I went back to the store and searched and asked around. It's nowhere, like I never really got it. I have no idea what happened, and I'm close to thinking I might have dreamed it. Except I'm 100% sure I had it. A replacement copy is $55.

Somehow I still managed to work up more of Brendan's quiet talk with his mother, giving him a bit more information about her and his father. There was also how she blames his difficult birth for having to stop dancing the Sean Nós, an Irish dance. They're how she met his father, and continued with them to make some extra money.

But Brendan's birth messed her up. And it also seemed to her like he didn't want to be born. Then through his life didn't want to be part of the world. And she almost seems sorry for him. Which is difficult to hear, after all those years of her abuse. At least now I know where they were married, and how.

This guy...it's like sifting for gold to get details out of him...

Brendan leads...

I'm following a winding path into darkness and light, now. Brendan's got his mother talking about when and where she married his father. And how she used to be a Celtic dancer...until he came along. "Poor little Brendan, never wanted to be part of this world. And never was, truly."

I'm beginning to wonder if the ending I've written is no longer valid. If this volume is drifting into tenderness and acceptance. I don't like that...but I'm not stopping anything until it's done and I can see the whole of it.

This is my favorite moment in the third draft...when Brendan is finally caught by the British...

---------

I opened the door just as a stocky Para was about to use his battering ram, so I slipped into to Todd’s attitude and snapped, “What the hell’s wrong with you? I said I’s comin’!” 

I thought for a second he was going to ram my head instead of the door, but another man stepped forward, one I’d not seen before.“Are you Jeremy Landau?” he said, another true Brit. 

“That’s me.” 

“Let me see your passport.” 

Already I could see the forms of women and children whispering up, despite the mist. And I could sense the hate in their eyes. I started to get a strong feeling of ugliness, so I handed it over without hesitation. I knew that’s the last time I’d have my hands on it. But Jeremy was no fool; the second he was called he’d know something had happened and would fall into some story like, "It's here somewhere." Then be shocked that it could not be located. 

As for Aunt Mari and Uncle Sean, they could stick to the story that I was Brennan McGabbhann, and how would they know otherwise. They had photos of their nephew, yes, but not very good ones. Besides, the FBI and State Department had looked into it all and found nothing...and prove anything to the contrary. Uncle Sean had David Landau's law firm and his connections, so they'd be fine.Right now my one concern was for minimizing the Haggertys’ troubles. 

“I’d invite you in,” I said, keeping the twang, “but this ain’t my place so--” 

“No need. You’ll come with us.” 

“Wait, Mrs. Haggerty’s not home an' her gran'kids're here, so I gotta wait till she gets back and--” 

“What’s this?” It was herself bolting from the house two doors down, a cloth holding eggs in one hand, another woman right behind her and just as angry. “Mr. Landau, what’s this?” 

“It’s nothin’, Mizz Haggerty,” I said. “These gentlemen just want me to go clear somethin’ up.” 

“You bloody Brit bastards,” she snarled, “he’s an American. Just because you think you can treat us like this doesn’t mean you can the whole world!” 

“By the saints,” someone added, “he’s American?!” 

“The fuckin’ English!” 

"Arrogant bastards, all!" 

More women and children were coming out. I grew more and more nervous. I'd once wondered if this was another method of pushing back against the Paras -- surround them with loud angry females to confuse the issue and dare them to raise their weapons. But this time even a quick look at how the grunt soldiers fingered their triggers, and how too many already had the beginnings of wicked feral grins on their faces. That showed me we’d not have a repeat of the night at Ma’s. The riots of the last weeks had put them too much on edge to be willing to back down peacefully, even if it was to avoid an incident with a pack of women and children. 

I couldn't allow this, not on my behalf, so I turned to Mrs. Haggerty and her mates and said, “Ladies, it’s all right. Thanks. I don’t mind goin’ with ‘em. I’ll just call the ‘Merican consulate from their office and get everything straightened out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. It’ll be fine.” I turned back to the man in charge with a smile and added, “It’s just a little misunderstandin’, right? Don’t want no trouble here.” 

I honestly couldn’t tell if he was a commander or captain or just a top sergeant, but at least he was smart enough to look around at the noisy seething crowd, hold his tongue and nod. He pointed to the closest of two Saracens and said, “In here,” then begrudgingly added, “Please.” 

"Just lemme get my boots."The look in his eyes shifted into a warning that I was not to do a damned thing more but what he’d asked, so I shrugged and let two of the grunts lead me around to the back of the first beast, in tandem. 

The second I stepped from the house my socks were soaked through, and the mist was chillier than I'd expected so I much regretted not having my coat or jumper. This was not going to be a pleasant ride.A monster of a Para opened the rear door as three others kept close watch on me and the rest warily made for the second Saracen, the women still calling all of God’s curses down on them and children as young as four maligning them. 

But as I was about to get in I noticed movement from above, like an arm waving from behind a chimney, and looked up to see a single, dark, perfectly-shaped brick softly hurtle over the roof top to slowly, slowly, slowly curl downward, downward, downward through the mist, twisting and spinning like a sprite, weighing nothing as it whispered closer and closer, a thing of such remarkable beauty and grace floating in the air, I stood still and watched it grow larger and larger...until it screamed of its danger and I gasped and turned away from it, thinking it might hit me.

Instead, it slammed onto the bonnet of the Saracen behind me and ricocheted into the chest of a Para that was keeping watch on me. He cried out and collapsed and his mates swung into full battle mode as the once-growling crowd of women burst apart like petals falling off an open rose in a sharp breeze and scrambled back to their homes, dragging their children behind them while more bricks and stones came pelting down on the Brits.

And on me.I was clipped in the back and hit full on my left hand as I scurried away from the Saracens to find a place of safety and saw the Paras taking cover behind the vehicles and a corner house, rifles prepped ready to fire and aiming, and I cried out, “They got real bullets!” with no hint of Texas in my voice then.

That’s when the Brit commander grabbed me and slammed me into a doorway, snarling, “Right, you’re from bloody America.” 

I couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the comical anger in his face. He punched me with his pistol, cutting open my left eye, yet still I laughed.

It was insane -- the chaos a few rocks can bring and the stupidity of the anger of these bastards against those they occupied and the futility of it all in the face of the world’s disinterest and the fact that Ma was dead and would never get to see any of this finally crush the spirit of those who lived here and no one would learn the lessons of the place because we were now a template on how to fight back against the oppressor and none of them could see how it never really worked, and this stupid bastard thought he could beat me into ending my laughter when it was beyond my control, all of it, all of it. 

I heard gunfire from the Paras’ rifles and laughed even harder as I choked out, “Ya stupid bloody bastards, you’re shootin' at ghosts!”

-------

...but now I'm wondering if it will survive.

Slow dance...

One problem with having written screenplays for so long, and done so damn many of them, is how you get to where you hate quiet spaces. Moments of low-key connection and understanding. In my favorite films, you find very little of this...even in the foreign ones.

400 Blows follows a boy descending into juvenile delinquency, thanks in part to the inattention of his parents, but it moves like a rocket.

La Dolce Vita slams along as it examines postwar Rome's growing decadence and disaffection, but still has moments that tear you apart with silent understanding.

Rules of the Game moves at the pace of a farce even as it delineates and reveals each character in it so very succinctly, leading up to an inevitable ending.

Notorious does not waste one moment in lining up a story about an alcoholic woman being pushed into prostitution for the US government, and setting up that not only is the solution to the story aligned with her use of alcohol, but so is her growing danger.

Late Spring is, of course, the antithesis of all this. Just quiet shots of an older man convincing his daughter it's time she got married, told in ways that are as delicate as a tea ceremony.

I'm hanging onto that as my template.

I have a gentle moment between Brendan and his mother, one without rancor or accusation, where a small part of the past is revealed...quite by accident. Brendan is waiting for word from Colm as to when to meet, so he now has cause to look deeper into his father's past. Because it ties into everything.

Of course, my initial thoughts about what that past is are now just plain common and childish. There's no problem with something being simple; it just has to be honest and real...not melodramatic in any way. So this will need a lot of care in its shaping.

This fucking volume is going to be my test as a writer. If I can pull it off, I'm good. If I can't, I'm lying to myself.

Meandering, again...

I'm focusing on Brendan's emotional state as I try to figure out the direction the story is going, now. So he stays up all night, his mind going in a hundred different directions, then he goes to The Derry Journal and reads about the bombing and everything is verified.

He crosses over to the Waterside, using his American persona to gain passage, and searches out Joanna's house...but other people live there, now. So he goes back to the Bogside, chats with the soldiers at the checkpoints and learns many of them hate Thatcher and don't know why they're in Northern Ireland. Then he lets Kieran know he wants to speak with Colm.

He brings in some bottles of Carling and goes upstairs, where he and his mother have a quiet talk about how she hates to eat because everything tastes bad, to her. Thanks to the medications she's on.

I have no idea where this is going, yet, but I think I'm breaking up the meeting with Colm. One now, one later. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, here, so I'm letting Brendan do it for me.

Had an appointment with a Urologist and they did a scan of my stomach and bladder, and everything's just like it always is. Same for my prostate.

I'm also dealing with a nasty situation set up by Avis. Washington DC claims I ran a red light, but the time they listed it happening is when the van I was driving was parked in an underground garage. Only I can't fight the ticket because Avis, without even talking to me, paid it! Which closed it! $150 for something that could not have happened. I'm upset about that and trying to figure out how to fight it...but may not be able to.

Also, Delta changed my flight to the UK. It was in partnership with British airways, but now is Virgin, and the flights between JFK and Manchester, and Heathrow and JFK are different enough to make me uncomfortable.

It seems like all of a sudden no matter what I do, someone is taking money from me or changing things on me without even discussing it with me, first.

Here we fucking go again...

Half of what I wrote on Home Not Home just exploded on me, thanks to changing how Brendan learns Joanna is still alive. Shattered. I can't fucking believe it. Every action Brendan takes after this is now colored with this awareness that people who knew him flat out betrayed him, and none of what I currently have works, anymore.

There's a point later in the story, when Brendan meets up with Colm for the first time since returning to Derry. At the circle fort in the Republic. Grianan Aileich. By which time he's been brutalized by some RUC constables who recognized him for who he really is. And...it...it's in the wrong place, in the story. But I don't know where the fuck to put it.

And the way it's written. It currently is like a couple of old friends who've met up and are remembering old times, and Brendan is numb at realizing how completely lost he is. And there was a tenderness to it.

Now?

Now the moment he's close to Colm he hits him. Colm's a better fighter so avoids the worst of the blow and spins Brendan around like he's a rag doll and shoves him to the floor of the fort. And Brendan goes up at him, again...to get spun around and held from behind as Colm growls, "What the fuck, Bren?"

"You knew!" Brendan says, voice cracking. "You knew she was alive! Knew what she meant to me and you said nothing! You never told me!"

Colm shoves Brendan away and snaps, "Told who? You didn't exist, anymore."

"She thinks I abandoned her! And she hates me. She fucking hates me." He grabs his head, almost keening. "It's all wrong. I shouldn't have come back. It's all wrong."

Colm sits by him and Brendan unloads everything. His confusion over how his mother hated him but still saved his life. Over learning his father might have been deliberately targeted by Protestants over something that happened before the man married Bernadette. Something that tore the man with guilt. 

This bit has to wrap everything together in his mind...just before his mother dies and he is arrested by the British army, to be interrogated. And I fell like I've just been broadsided so hard, my car's torn in two...but I'm still expected to drive it.

Fuck.

Rabbit hole...

Brendan's caught in a serious moment of chaos, in this story. Nine chapters in and everything is going fine. People think of him as an American named Jeremy Landau. He's had hints that his father may have been targeted for his attack, but only vague nothing references. He managed to avoid being seen by Father Jack, whom he knows would know him...until after the peace movement meeting, when the man comes up to speak with Maeve. He knows who Brendan really is but plays along with the charade...until he mentions someone named Joanna.

And Brendan spirals into wondering if he's spent the last eight years thinking he might have been wrong, believing that she was killed in that bombing. Because Father Jack knows he knew a Joanna, and that it was her father's shop that was targeted by that car bomb. And he's being so very deliberately nonchalant about what he just said.

Now Brendan is questioning his last memories of seeing her caught in the burning rubble. He was incontinent for 6 months, and by then the news would have moved on to new atrocities in the North of Ireland. And the thought of digging into it was too painful, so he accepted it and tried to rebuild his life.

But now he plans to visit The Derry Journal and read the articles from that time...and he will learn she survived. And has no idea how to approach her. Maeve knows nothing about her. It was Father Jack who'd  gone to pick her up, to speak at the meeting, but she had became too upset so didn't even get out of his car. He says she will be at the next meeting, in two weeks, but how can Brendan manage to wait that long?

His only other choice is to talk with Father Jack. He watched over Brendan as he healed before Aunt Mari came, so he probably had a good idea of all that was done to get him into the US. Probably knew where he was staying. Obviously, he'd kept the secret, but Brendan still does not trust the man. Not at all.

It's quite a problem, and I may have dug this hole too deep, but I already like it far more than what I had. That had been them meeting at a dance being put on the have both sides come together for fun, and their conversation had been too movie-dialogue like. And never really did make sense.

Now? It seems closer to how it might really happen. So I'm following it.