Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 76

Halfway...

Seems the halfway point worked out just right in the middle of this part of the story. It comes shortly after Brendan's family moves into their new apartment, a few months after the attack on the People's Democracy marchers at Burntollet bridge. That happens on January 4th, 1969 so the move comes in March or April. Anger is building in the Catholic community and Protestants can't see that if they'd just give in a little they could avoid the hell that was to come.

Working on this book has clued me into just how blind people can be when they want to be. And how easily manipulated. Ian Paisley caught on to the growing Protestant fear that they'd be disenfranchised if they gave Catholics any of the same right they enjoyed and used it to build a mob of thugs who loved to wreak havoc on those they didn't think could fight back. And for 45 years there had been little pushback. But with the civil rights movement, everything changed...and those in power couldn't see it. Hell, even the IRA's leadership of the time couldn't see it.

Or wouldn't. Or were too stupid to understand. Or a combination of all three. And followed 30 years of bloodshed, hate, division, lies, anger, and blame until both sides were too worn out to continue and came to a compromise. After wasting billions of pounds sterling and ruining the lives of untold more people.

Sometimes I wonder if we're slipping into a similar situation, in this country. We've got hardcore radical right wing religious nuts, like Paisley was, trying to shove their agenda down the throats of the rest of us, even as we fight back. I hope it doesn't descend into the same level of bloodshed, because over 3000 people died in those 30 years, most of them between 1970 and 1975. The population of N. Ireland was 1,500,000. That would equal to well over 600,000 dead in a country our size.

But that's about how many died in the Civil War, so it's not inconceivable.

Moving right along...

I've slipped into the smoothest part of the rewrite, now that Brendan's personality is established and his attitudes settled in. I also found the perfect spot to show him learning to use a knife and fork on a drumstick.---------- Of course, the Protestant crowd was growing more and more difficult with us. As if their threats and calling of names would stop the marches and demonstrations and actions being taken throughout the year. It's like their side believed that to give us the same as everyone meant there would be less for them. There were also many on our side who said we should just keep ourselves apart from the Unionists, completely, with the comment usually followed by something like, They cannot be trusted. So I made sure to tell all my mates...no, my Chinas that religion and politics were to be kept from my house. 
"If you don't," I said, "you're in for an hour's lecture about the history of Ireland in full detail, from my mother, and you do not want that. Believe me." 
"Yeah," said Paidrig, "get enough from the brothers, hi." 
"And priests," said Danny. 
"Father Demian treats you to history lessons, does he?" asked Colm, jostling Danny, who just shrugged and said no more. 
Fortunately, Ma never saw Billy with me, again. Which was good, because the gossip was growing about a group of Catholic boys being seen with him. 
He lives in The Fountain, don't he? It's not good for him to be mingling in with our lads. What d'ya think he's after, hi? Somethin' sneaky, that's for sure. That's a low thing to say about a child. I seen him going after Proddies with stones. He's the one with the catapult, hi? Brand new, and a good eye with it. Well, if he's firing stones at them, he can't be a bad 'un, can he? 
A lot of that gargle was due to this one time, during a July Orange Parade, Billy and me were on William Street and got caught in the middle of two gangs chucking stones at each other, one Catholic and one Protestant. I was near hit by a fair-size piece of pavement that came from my side, so I'd howled and shied it back at them, without a thought. Then I'd followed it with more. 
Billy had laughed and begun grabbing pebbles to fire at the Proddies, using that catapult. We were like loonies in the bin...till both sides had forgotten about each other and come after us.Fortunately, we were also good runners. 
I'd known Mrs. Bannon was home so we'd bolted up to her door and scurried inside, me crying, "Mrs. Bannon, we've come for tea!" 
She'd come tottering down the hall, an older lady in just her shift and apron, eyes wide and wary. "Tea," she'd asked. "What do you mean?" 
"Don't you remember, Mrs. Bannon?" I had said, full innocent. "You invited me for tea, today at...at..." This old grandfather clock of hers had shown 5:49, so I'd continued with, "six o'clock, but I'm a bit early. Sorry if that's a trouble." 
"I did?" She had started frowning at herself. 
"Surely you've not forgotten?" I'd asked. Billy was about to fall into laughing so I'd jostled him and added. "I brought a friend, Billy, with me. I hope it's all right." 
She had huffed then smiled and shrugged and said, "Come along. Seat yourselves at the table I'll have it ready in a jiff." 
So we did.And she'd fed us part of her chicken dinner, with mushy peas and carrots, with a fine Ceylon Black tea. We'd sat at the table, where I'd noticed she used a knife and fork to cut the meat off a leg. Without thinking, I'd tried to emulate her, and she had been kind enough to give me direction on how best to hold the cutlery; instead of gripping it like I was going to stab something, hold it like you were going to poke some lad's fat arse.
"It's so much nicer this way," she'd said. "Isn't it?" 
Well, it was certainly nicer than tearing it apart with your fingers, and the mechanics of it were simple. Dig the fork deep into the meat and slice between it and the bone. Carefully. Like working with a delicate telly. I'd felt very grown up being able to do it, and a bit guilty for taking some of her food away from her over a lie. 
Billy'd never said a word, just watched me and her with our finest manners. 
We'd still had a lovely chat about how glad she was we'd stopped by, despite all the noise and carry-on with the march. She also had four cats that came strolling out, one after the other, all orange tabbies, of course, and only one willing to be touched. None had tried to get on the table but instead placed themselves around her, standing at attention, almost like they were guarding her. When we'd finally left, she made us swear to come, again, and next time she'd be sure to remember inviting us. 
Billy had laughed at me the whole way home, saying over and over, "I can't believe you did that!" 
"Got us away, didn't it?" I'd said, proudly. "And well-fed." 
"Me mother's gonna wonder why I'm not hungry, now. And where I was." 
"Tell her we had tea and cakes at the Diplomat." 
"Yeah, she'll believe that. You're loop-de-loop, me China." 
"Maybe next time I'll let you get pummeled." 
"I'm faster than you in a run." 
I'd just laughed at him.
We'd crowed about our battle to Colm and Danny, the next day, and they'd told me I was mad, to which I'd answered, "I was. The bloody thing missed me by an inch. Whoever threw it should get glasses or training."
 They then refused to believe our visit with Mrs. Bannon. I didn't bother to convince them. Instead, since I had no jobs lined up, we hit up to Long Tower and had a fine game of footy.

Family stuff of my own...

My youngest brother, Kelly, just moved into a new apartment from a cheesy little trailer on the east side of San Antonio. It's a lot better than where he was, right next to a Target and WalMart. He's getting financial assistance from the city for his rent, too. That's taken a few phone calls and back and forth with him as well as my nephew, who's the one really getting things done. Me being 1600 miles away is rather limiting.

Still, it takes focus away from what I'm doing here. My hope is this will be nicely settled by the end of the week and I can be easy, again. He's never been the easiest person to get to do things for himself. He needs a steady push, but careful so he doesn't get to feel like he's being treated like a child. 

In a bookend situation that only seems to happen in novels, Kelly and I were born with health issues, some pretty severe. I managed to grow out of mine enough to function like a normal person, though I do sometimes think I'm an undiagnosed dyslexic who's worked out how to cope with it on my own. Not easily, and I still take longer to write because I keep reversing letter and numbers and leaving out entire words...but I recognize it as I go and do what I can to correct it, then.

Anyway, I'm my mother's first child and Kelly is her last, while my middle brother and sister were born fine. Developed normally. None of the quirks Kelly and I have. He turned out to be wired up different from the rest of us but functioned well-enough. He's always had minimum wage jobs in grocery stores and convenience stores and apartment maintenance but they've done fine for him. However, now he's older and his abilities have deteriorated while his cognitive processes have become limited, so he doesn't have what people want to hire, anymore.

At least he's going to get early Social Security when he hits 62, this coming January, and maybe Medicade. Which will take a huge financial burden off me, finally. I've been his main source of income for the last ten years...and it's been rough. But he never had to worry about living on the street, thanks to additional help from my sister.

So tomorrow I go back to APoS and Brendan's march to his destiny.

Mark Hertling on the Orange Bastard's Treason

I am beyond livid at what The Former President has done with America's secrets. I kept away from the mass hysteria of him traveling to the courthouse and being charged, though apparently not arraigned, if I understand it correctly. No bail required. No travel restrictions. No need to turn over his passport. Not even a fucking mug shot. Handled with kid gloves. 

I'm not going to rant and rave on what he's done; I'm too fucking pissed off. Here's a much better discussion of it from Mark Hertling's Twitter posting today:

 --------- 

A former President is being indicted - for the 2nd time - & there's non-stop coverage.Some good analysis, some not so good. Many keep bringing up how "those in the military are likely the most upset about Trump absconding with intel secrets." 

Yes, but there's more. Having read the indictment (4x's now), the amount & type of classified information Trump took, hid, did not secure, and refused to give back is, IMHO, gobsmacking.Many analysts have called them "war plans." 

I doubt any documents fit into that specific contingency category.The documents were likely extremely detailed intelligence assessments, w/ potential foe (& friendly) capabilities & weaknesses & US capabilities we would not want anyone - especially foes - to know. 

Many have said, this isn't a document issue it's a national security issue.I have seen intel agencies, military units, foreign service officers put sweat & blood into providing these documents, making sure they are accurate.All those individuals KNOW they must get it right, because their work, their assessments, are provided to key decision-makers.Those who view these docs - the President, high-level military leaders, State Dept officials & others - use these assessments for critical decision making. FOR our citizens, FOR our country. 

One phrase in the indictment struck me like a bullet.Trump saying: "my boxes."None of these are "personal papers." These documents provide information/intelligence - gathered through the use of US capabilities, put together by really smart, dedicated, patriotic individuals - to be used by US officials to defend against all enemies, foreign & domestic. Strategic leaders see and use these documents when they are in a position to serve the American people. They don't get to keep them, or review them, or show them around, or not keep them secure, when they are no longer in the position.

As a military leader in command of different organizations, I "used" each kind of the type of documents found in the trove at MAL.Each kind: Secret, Top Secret, TS-SCI, TS-HCI, NOFORM, TK, even the kinds of ones that were "redactted" (mostly likely various code word). I was ONLY allowed to see them because they helped me make better decisions, plans, or conduct more effective operations. 

When I left the military or a specific job, I was "read out" of the clearance.That's what happens to everyone, including the President. Yes, the President has declassification authority.But that requires a process that then protects a LOT of people. Anyone who says otherwise is a moron.And anyone who says someone can do it after leaving their leadership role is even more moronic. 

There's a reason I reacted viscerally to the "my papers" statement.To claim they are "his" - as if they've been given to him for personal use or vanity just like the WWE belt, the NY Post clippings, or any other trinket or memento found in these boxes - is horrid. Yes, military & intel officials are pissed. They know the power of these documents that were treated cavalierly.All Americans should be equally pissed. But it seems many are not because of how some in government are treating this case. 

We need to treat this seriously.

Brendan makes friends...

 This is when Brendan is 8 and already thought to be a bit weird.

---------

Never was I the sort of lad who sought friendships. I had more important things for my attention and would have been happy to pass through life on just a name basis with those around me. But Eamonn decided he fancied a girl he'd noticed at The Embassy, one night, and found he knew her uncle, a Mr. O'Faelan who drove an old black cab. He also learned she lived in a house that overlooked the pitch where Derry City played their home games.

So one day, when I was but eight, Eamonn stormed into the parlor, freshly washed, and said, "Come along, Bren! Derry City's playin' and I know a place we can watch." 

I waved him away and kept my focus on unwinding the spring to Mrs. Campbell's alarm clock. She'd worked it so tight it was frozen and might even have been bent so would need a new spring, if I could get the old one out and...and never mind; that's not important...though the sixpence she'd promised was. 

But he simply picked me up, slung me over his shoulder and swatted me arse, saying, "We're off to watch the match, Ma!" 

"Leave off me!" was all I got out before Ma came down the stairs, also freshly washed. When had the two of them done that? I wondered, for I'd been working not so very far from the basin. 

She was smiling as she said, "Good. Get him out for a bit. All he does is sit there and tinker with things. Drives me mad. Be sure to keep him there till it's done." 

Then I heard, "Bernadette," calling in Da's voice. 

Eamonn carried me outside and I saw Da coming up from Fahan, his rucksak over one shoulder. He had returned from Belfast on the afternoon bus. Then I realized the house was quiet. Where were Mairead, Rhuari and Maeve? 

Eamonn waved to Da then I wound up seated on his shoulders and ferried like an invalid child all the way to Brandywell. 

Enroute, he told me, "I just want to spend some time with a lass named Aliene, Bren. Slip away and talk. Will you help me, here?" 

"Why can't you talk with her without me?" I snarled. 

"It's complicated." 

"What's that mean?" 

"Don't the Brothers teach you English?" 

"I do well enough." 

"All right, all right. It's just, I want to talk with her without her parents breathing down my neck or her friends all about. That's all." 

"And you need me for that? I was trying to..." 

He yanked at my legs to shut me up. "I told Mr. O'Faelan I'd bring you. He's heard how you like to fix things and he'll probably ask you something about his cab." 

"I don't fix cars." 

"He may still ask." 

"He can ask what he wants; I don't fix cars." 

We were at the front door to a nice terrace house before he'd let me down. An older lady answered the door and Eamonn said, "Good afternoon, Mrs Mooney. I'm Eamonn Kinsella and this is my brother, Brendan. Did Mr. O'Faelan tell you we might be dropping by to watch Derry City, with him?" 

She just huffed and said, "He's upstairs, front bedroom. I'll bring you all some tea." Then she headed back to what looked like a real kitchen, from what I could see. Very posh. 

So up the stairs he dragged me. Hesitated at an open door, obviously to the back bedroom, and smiled at a pretty girl with red hair, inside. Then led me to the front.It was nice and comfortable, with two windows. Lace curtains were pulled aside, with two boys huddled around one and a boy and man at the other, chattering some nonsense about how the match was going. 

The man was Mr. O'Faelan, who was tall, ruddy, neatly dressed and smoking a cigarette. The boy with him was Colm, a lad my age who was also ruddy and block-solid. I'd seen him about school with a pack of mates. He was one of those lads whom no one would test or bother. 

At the other window were Danny Gallagher and Paidrig Hurley, both my age, but w hile Danny was trim and fair, Paidrig was more fat than not and darker. Neither was at my school, but I'd seen Danny at my parish. They were having full fun rooting our team on. 

Eamonn introduced me to Mr. O'Faelan, who shook my hand and said, "I hear you're something of a fix-it lad."I just shrugged."My For Hire flag won't stay up. I have to bind it then unbind. But if I take it in for repair, it's going to cost me. Maybe even put in an electronic." 

"Don't you know someone who can take it apart and see what's the problem?" 

He nodded. "But they all tell me to get a new one." 

"Well...won't know what I can do till I see it." 

He smiled and nodded. "I'll show you after the match." 

"You'll have to take us home. I don't have my grip or turn-screw with me." 

He just nodded and pulled up a chair to sit and watch what he could of the match. 

I didn't really understand the rules and such of football, for sports had never much interested me, so Mr. O'Faelan explained it as the first half continued. Colm cast me a few irritated glances then joined Danny and Paidrig.At the mid-point, score was 0-1 and not looking good. 

Mr. O'Faelan was smoking hard and fast and growling in very angry tones. Not even Mrs. Moony's tea and cake settled him. Not until I found that I could see mistakes being made by the opposing team's fresh goalie, in the second half. I had no idea what to call them but I'd say things like, "He's at the wrong side of the net," and "Looks like he's aimed for the center." Nine times out of ten, watching the players do their back and forth runs and kicks and bumps, I could say where our goal would be attempted. 

 Mr. O'Faelan, noticed and asked me to also watch our goalie. I had to stand on the chair to get a better view of him, and I found he was better aware of the opposing team's strategy.Colm and Danny came over to flank me at that window, fascinated, as Mr. O'Faelan stood behind me. Eamonn had, as I suspected he would, disappeared. 

"D'you play?" Colm asked me. 

"Never have," was my response. 

"Then how can you tell what they're up to?" Danny asked. 

"It's how they move on the pitch. Who they look at and for how long." 

Colm frowned, his eyes sharp on the players. "We have a strategy that's tight." 

"Not like theirs." 

"Will we be winning this match?" Mr. O'Faelan asked. 

I nodded. "Derry City's not on top of it, but our goalie's on top of it and theirs is shite." 

He chuckled, said he had to make a phone call and hurried downstairs.Colm smirked after him. Eight years old and he knows all his Da's betting quirks. Then he turned back to me. "I've seen you at school." 

I shrugged in answer.

Danny added, "And at mass. Always off to yourself, you and your family. Always quiet. Except around the grown ups." 

"Ma don't like noise in church," I said. 

"He's the looner, hi," said Paidrig, whom I'd near forgot was there. 

Colm frowned at him. "What d'you mean?" 

"That's what all the lads call him. I know the White brothers and they pick on everybody but him, hi. Scared he might hex 'em or something." 

"I don't know them," I said, even though I did and they had tried to pick at me, a few times, but had backed away when all I'd do is just glare at them like they were insects. 

"You want to play some footy?" Colm asked. "Danny and me're at Doire Youth Club. Play at Long Tower, and we could use another." 

"See how you do as real goalie," said Danny. 

"I'm usually it," said Colm, "but I'm not good with strategy." 

"Or quick," said Danny. 

"Oi!" But he was smirking when he said it.

"Never played before," I said. 

"It's easy," Colm laughed. "Keep the ball out." 

I huffed. "Like what I've been telling you he was doing or not, the whole match?" 

Colm and Danny both laughed. Paidrig helped himself to a last slice of the cake. 

I actually smiled but still said, "I don't know." 

That is when Eamonn was shoved into the room by Mrs. Money, as she snarled, "You will stay in here or be out on your arse."Mr. O'Faelan was right behind him, shaking his head and fighting a smile as he murmured, "Oh, Eamon. Eamonn."

Climbing back on the horse...

I went through one of my usual downer moods and did absolutely no writing or rewriting yesterday or the day before. Instead, I worked online trying to help on the disaster of the Nova Kakhovka dam's destruction on the Dnipro River in Ukraine. It's still unfolding and there's word Russia destroyed another dam in Ukraine. There's not much I can do from Buffalo, and because of my age, but direct people to places where they can donate money and things to go to the country. If anyone wants to do so, here's a link to Timothy Snyder's Twitter page and 10 places that are working for Ukraine.

On a positive note, Ukraine's counter-assault is underway and it is going to be bloody. Hideous. But all you can to is hope Putin is deposed ASAP and Russia withdraws back to the 1991 borders she agreed to. I doubt that will happen and it apppears this war will go on for years until Russia backs down, like she did in Afghanistan.

It's funny and a bit shallow of me, but I'm angry with Moscow for invading Ukraine partly because I loved Russian literature. Anna Karenina, War & Peace, The Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment...I was entranced by the whole idea of man trapped in his fate. I even used Chekov's short story, Champagne, for a short script that actually impressed my screenwriting teachers at UT. Now? I've learned so much about Russia's hideous past...not just under communism but also the Tsars...that I cannot see her culture as anything but horrifying.

I did manage to get back to work, this morning, and restructure the first three chapters, a bit. Not a huge amount. Just made it a case of having things happen instead of Brendan only telling us what happened. Like how he met his friends -- Colm, Danny, Paidrig, wee Eammon, Billy and Gerry. Made it more natural and easy-going...and added a good 5 pages to the chapter. But it's more immediate, now.

At least #45 was indicted and Pat Robertson died, this week. Two evil men who deserve hell. I wish I believed in it so I'd know Robertson was down there and The Orange One will join him, some day.

Continuation...

 Yesterday's post continued and added to:

-------

We were climbing back up the hillside to my house when Danny said, "You're in a better temper, now." 

I shrugged. "Wasn't I, before?" 

"Naw. Quiet. Even for you. Like your mind's a hundred miles off." 

I stopped halfway up the hill and looked at my house. No light was on. I turned around. "I want another smoke, but I haven't any. Let's go back to -- " 

"Here." 

He let me have one of his and I fired it up and stood there, looking out over the Bogside. Over the fading light. Finally, the darkness, the growing darkness. With nightfall, I knew I'd be fine, again. Happy, again. Something icy was caught in my chest. Something empty. I needed space and silence and nothingness to let it drift away. So I said nothing.

Danny kept quiet. For a moment I got the feeling he was going through something similar. Maybe as bad as myself, maybe not, but him not saying a word was the best thing he could have done for me.By the end of the smoke, the light was far enough gone to let me be completely at ease. 

I asked, "Have you seen Colm, today?" 

"Naw, he's off with those new lads. Him and Paidrig. No idea where they are. Who they are. Why?" 

I shrugged and smiled at him. "You'll always be me China, won't ya?" 

He smiled back, but with a bit of wariness. "'Course, Bren. And you, mine." He looked back over the Bogside, swaying a little. "It's nice, here. The city's quiet and you can tuck your thoughts away to worry over, later." I nodded. I could hear a smile in his voice. "You understand what I mean. I don't think Colm ever could. He's too caught in his...what'd he call it once? Forward movement?" 

I chuckled. "Sounds American." 

He smiled. "That's our Colm, always with the latest. When's Eamonn back?" 

I had no idea so just shrugged, then asked, "You thirsty?" He shrugged a sort of yes. I grinned. "Y'know, I got a pound on me, still. What you say we find out if some old sport'll pop in the off-license and get us a little something? To drink." 

"I don't think a pound's enough for the both of us," said Danny. Then he cast me a wicked side glance. "Let's to my house." 

I shrugged and we went. 

His was a nice maisonette in fair shape down the hill from mine. Mold on the whitewashed walls and chipped sills and stoops, without, but in through the green door you'd find a well-kept parlor with a small prayer corner next to the hearth, cushioned chairs and two lamps around a low table. Pictures adorned the walls and throw carpets covered the floor. A telly was in the corner nearest the window, its rabbit ears extended with tinfoil. 

We said hello to his mother, who was focused on some cooking show on the telly so barely noticed us. 

"Valium," said Danny. 

"Wow," I said. "Y'know, I can copy me Ma's signature. You think we could get some for wee Eammon's?" 

"I think ya gotta see the doctor first." 

Then we were up to his small room...where he had a plush bed to himself, table and lamp beside it, a wardrobe and a narrow desk with a wooden chair. Posters of The Rolling Stones and Lulu and the like were pinned to his walls, and atop the wardrobe was a row of books...that hid three Tennant Nips bottles. He handed me one.

"How'd you get these?" I asked. 

"Da's. Didn't notice I lifted them. He forgets how much he's had to drink, at times." 

So we sat down and started up the radio and finished off his pack of Blues and each had a bottle as we just listened to song after song after song. Not saying a word. I didn't get home till well after everyone was to bed. 

The next morning, it being Sunday, I slept through Mass. But then Mai worked a full fry-up, the smells of which brought me bolting downstairs fast, I was so perished from the hunger. But the moment Ma saw me, she tossed what was to be my plate on the floor, breaking it. That it was one that was already chipped and cracked, I noticed. Of course, that set Kieran to wailing. 

Mai’s sigh of, “Ma, it’s a sin to waste food,” didn't begin to make her sorry for it, while Rhuari just looked at her as Maeve asked, “But how’s he to eat it, Ma?” 

“Hush and finish your breakfast,” she snapped. Then she shook Kieran and said, “Be still or I’ll give you cause to cry.” Of course, he couldn’t be, so she pulled him up from the chair and swatted his rear. He shut up, startled.

Silence smothered the room. It was the first time she'd struck him in any way. She almost looked flustered.

Without thinking, I added to it when I glared at her and muttered, "Beating a baby." 

Now they all looked at me, in shock. Which made me grin. Then just to be a maggot, I sat cross-leg on the floor and ate very bit of that fry-up I could manage with my fingers. Like a dog eating its vomit, but with more care to avoid the broken plate.

There was not a word from any of them, though a wary glint came Ma's eyes. I had to fight a laugh. If she thought me simple, before, now she was sure to think me mad. And I loved it. Might give her pause, the next time she thinks to lay hands on me.

Shifting...

Officially, this is chapter 6 in the story. Brendan is twelve, and this part happens just after he's had a vicious argument with his mother. For the first time he's yelled back at her in front of people, and she's bloodied him. They're in front of their home, and not one of the witnesses does anything to stop the beating, infuriating him. It takes Mairead coming from inside to draw his mother away, and he is left alone as everyone else goes back home. And this infuriates him.

---------

Danny and wee Eammon showed up, just then, to find me standing alone across the lane from my door. Doing nothing. Just standing. By this point, my lip was no longer bleeding. I'd wiped my face with my sleeve. My shirt was black so blood didn't show on it. I looked as if I'd just grown lost in one of my thoughts.

Which was truth. Having seen the same rage in my mother as I'd seen in Da, so many times, I finally understood they had been perfect for each other. A perfect match between growling animals and I had no idea what to make of it.

"Ready for us, me China?" Danny asked, his voice wary. 

I nodded and turned and we walked down through the waste land to Fahan and Waterloo, to find what sport we could in Guildhall Square. There wasn't much, with this demonstration. Just more loud voices and demands made, but they had begun to seem all the same and a bit tedious. We stayed for a long enough while, paying little attention to the crowd or speakers, just smoking Blues and saying naught.

Then we had our tea at a chippy. Danny and I let wee Eammon share in ours...more mine, really, for I wasn't so very hungry, and eating hurt my lip. After, we wandered along the Strand and the docks till half eight. That's when we dropped wee Eammon off to his Ma's, in the Flats. 

She was not happy he'd been out so long, and never mind he'd been with us. She smelled the fags on us was sure we were trying to kill him, if not from the asthma then letting him starve to death, and she would not hear of him actually having eaten. He just cast us a look of thanks before we were escorted out and the door slammed behind us. 

We heard her saying, "I don't want you around those two, anymore!" 

"Ma, they're me friends, and Brendan -- " 

"Enough! The trial that Brendan is to his mother is bad enough, and he's happy to make you one for me!"

 Their voices grew too muffled to hear more. 

Danny sighed. "I'm glad me Ma's not like that." He winked at me. "She's on tranqs. Maybe we should ask NHS to give some to wee Eammon's." 

I just nodded and turned, not even trying to smile. I was numb to her words. I leaned against the railing and pulled out my last Blue. As I lit it, I heard barking, from below. In the twilight, I saw a pack of dogs chase a yellow tom cat across the courtyard. It tried to escape them, but they managed to surround it in a corner and were howling and snarling and lunging as the cat hissed and spit and clawed at them. I held my breath. Five...no, six against one. I figured the cat was dead. For while I wanted something to throw down to stop them, I had nothing, and the elevator was slow. 

Danny noticed the beasts and sighed. "I've seen that one chased a few times," he said. "Not a pleasant creature. Looks like he's finally been caught." 

"It's not fair, is it?" I murmured. "A pack like that against one." 

"It's nature's way." 

"Yeah...I guess. Would that it were not so..." 

I watched the mongrels grow closer and closer to the tom, having their fun. Lunging. Snapping. Near grabbing his tail, once. He still spat and hissed and scratched, giving no hint of surrender. I wanted to turn away, but I couldn't. I felt it would be dishonorable. 

Closer they grew. 

Louder. 

Angrier. 

People walked wide to avoid it, doing nothing to help or hinder. Like with me.

I felt a despair grow within. And anger. At everything. At nothing. Finally, I flicked the last of my Blue down at the howling beasts. To my shock, it twisted and spun and landed on one dog's arse. The mongrel yelped and turned and the others hesitated and... 

Suddenly, the tom spun into a howling mass of fur and claws, startling the dogs. Yelps and howls and whines and cries of pain and soft whimpers...and poof -- the cat was gone. 

"Jesus, Bren, did you see that?" Danny whispered.

I nodded, grinning, really fucking proud of myself, though it was pure luck the Blue had traveled as it did. "Never count yourself down, eh?" 

"I guess not," he said, then fired up his own fag. 

I didn't want to move. I wanted to stand there, in homage. Watch the dogs wander around, hurt and confused. How could it have gotten away? They had beaten the little beast, they knew it, but it had outdone them. They'd get no second go at it...and nothing could have pleased me more than to have witnessed it. I actually started to laugh, even though it hurt my lip.

I looked up and across at the Guildhall, sitting solid and uncaring. A symbol of all that was wrong in Derry. A Catholic town controlled by Protestants without a care for those who'd been here a thousand years before them. Beyond it, the Foyle whispered past, giving no thought to our pettiness and obscene behaviors. Nature's way was to let the strong destroy the weak? That tom had proven it a lie. No matter how badly you seem to have lost, you could still beat your tormentors. 

Then wee Eammon's Ma burst out the door, howling, "Why are you standing there, smoking? He's got asthma, you know? Are you trying to kill him?" 

"Ma, I'm fine," came from within. 

I sighed, saluted her, then Danny and I headed for the elevator. I had a pound still on me, and I wanted a drink and another smoke. But my mood was lighter. 

The strong destroy the weak? Like bloody hell.

Better and smoother...

The moodiness of yesterday pretty much drifted away by the time I woke this morning. I had some bizarre dreams about a 747 and running from one of the of the airport to another only to find I had to go back and there were no planes...and that's about all I remember.

It seems the first four chapters of APoS are the ones demanding the biggest adjustments. Now I'm slipping through much easier, with minimal red pen happening, half of which are to correct a typo or note where a word is missing or I've somehow repeated a sentence in the body of a paragraph. Just plain sloppy.

Brendan's more out of his shell and sees Joanna for the first time. He's just helped Mr. O'Faelan repair his taxi by the bus depot and is trying to wash the oil and muck off him with some snow when she appears with her mother and brother. The two of them exchange looks and Brendan is done for. But she's Protestant and Mr. O'Faelan gives Brendan a gentle warning about expectations.

Except that night, Brendan cannot help but think about her and has his first erection...and finds himself in severe pain. He has phimosis and has to be circumcised. He's already known as the Jew-boy of the neighborhood because of how he is with money, and now it's even more-so. He points out Scots are tighter with their cash, but no one pays any attention.

I had though about shifting a lot of this deeper into the story. Things Brendan refers to at times when current events remind him...but that doesn't seem to be the way the story wants to be told. Lay the groundwork and then get things going. It's not all that deep into the book. Maybe 50-60 pages, once formatted, and then events start swirling around him.

I'm sort of torn between the screenplay rule that you have to grab them by page 10...which lately seems to have become page 3...and keep it going fast. But this is a book, and I'm not emulating something written by Stephen King, so I think I can take some time.

I hope.

Moodiness...

Woke up this morning completely out of sorts, with the beginning of a psoriatic headache and bleary attitude that did not bode well. I grumbled about till nearly 2, fighting the headache back to niggling but not painful, twice, before I was able to get myself in gear to work on APoS. It's still there, but merely irritating.
I rewrote the section where Brendan makes friends with Colm and Danny, and I think it plays a lot more naturally. Eamonn drags six-year-old Brendan with him as an excuse to get into the house of Colm's aunt. Their upstairs windows overlook the pitch where Derry City football team plays, and he knows Colm's father, Mr. O'Faelan, watches when there is a home game. Eamonn doesn't care about all that; he has a crush on one of Colm's cousins, who lives there. So he tells everyone Brendan wants to watch the match.
Which he doesn't. Brendan's sole interest is in rebuilding and repairing things, and he's irritated he's dragged away from replacing the wheels on a Corgi toy. So while Eamonn is trying to make time with the girl, Brendan is bored and starts criticizing how the football teams are playing. It's almost like taking apart a clock to repair, to him, as he gains a quick idea of the two teams' strategies and can tell what their play will be, from moment to moment.
Danny and Paidrig are also there, watching. They know of Brendan but have never spoken to him thanks to his reputation for being standoffish to the point of loony. But his observations prove to be true and even convince Mr. O'Faelan to call his bookie and bet on Derry City to win. Brendan points out the opposing team's goalie consistently sets himself up wrong, and half the time the only reason a goal isn't made is due to a poor kick or relay.
This starts the boys on a longterm friendship, which helps protect Brendan from some neighborhood bullies and brings him out into the world. He still like to take things apart and put them back together, but it's no longer his only meaning, and now he'll be ready to see Joanna and find a new dream for his life.