A Place of Safety

I'm in Houston, right now, for a job but also to research Brendan's time here in the 70s. Since we got the packing done quickly, I've been able to haunt several book stores seeking info...and finding little. Brazos books had next to nothing. Kaboom had nothing at all. I wound up getting the most useful books at the Barnes & Noble in River Oaks, while I was driving around the area to get a better feel for it. His aunt and uncle live next to River Oaks, off Shepard. I then drove out the route Brendan is taken on when he's grabbed by some KKK members and beaten for daring to date a black woman. It happens out in Deer Park in the middle of the night. This spot near an elementary school gave me the exact image I needed for it -- Oak trees surrounding a playground. I visited NASA, as well, and finally had some BBQ at a Rudy's that's not far from there. I didn't make it to the library. I've had 2 nosebleeds while in Houston and am now paranoid I'll get

 In the Beginning To start with the truth of it, those who knew Eamonn Kinsella (and were being at least somewhat honest with themselves) would have to admit that were my father born but ten miles to the west or north, his murder would have been seen as the fitting end to a hard and brutal man. What is more, my poorly-disguised pleasure at his passing would have been deemed understandable...if still somewhat inappropriate. After all, he was flesh and blood to me, wasn't he? Though often more of the latter than the former when it came to me and my older brother. His body was found off the Limavady Road in a ditch of flowing water on a cold, blustery morning late in February. His coat had been pulled down his arms and his hands bound behind him. Every bone on every finger had been broken, several ribs shattered, an elbow dislocated and his face pummeled into the mere hint of a human visage. Blood soaked his shirt down to his trousers, the knees of which were torn and scraped as if he

  2021 can fucking bite itself in the ass. Here we are, 9 fucking days into the new year and we've had a rollercoaster ride of epic proportions, already. I can't handle another 356 days of this shit. So I'm withdrawing back to A Place of Safety . I figure if we're going to have something similar to The Troubles happen in the US, may as well get prepped for it. The Troubles began with civil rights marches, where peaceful protesters were attacked all over the place by those who wanted to remain in power. A lot of it was caught on camera in newsreels and photographs, and the attackers didn't care if they were seen committing illegal assaults. They knew they would not be held accountable...and sure enough, they weren't. It didn't matter how the world viewed their actions; they maintained real control until the Easter Accord of 1998. It took thirty years of death and destruction to wear them down before they agreed to even share power, and that pissed off a shitl

I've been in an odd mood the last few days. No writing done, just research...and I've seen I have a lot of rewriting to do if I want the first part of Darian's Point to happen 3500 years ago and not 6000. For example, crannogs like this one were being used much earlier than I'd thought...which is one of the reasons I wanted to actually visit on in Ireland and view for myself. I think this jolted the story in my head and I'm having to realign everything before I can continue. It's also the end of 2020 and I am so damned glad. In 20 days, if all goes according to plan, Biden will be president and that orange beast will be gone. No guarantees, yet. I don't put it past him to pull some shit that throws everything into chaos. He thrives on that. Lives for it, like some maniacal James Bond villain. "I will rule the world or I will destroy it!" Anyway...I haven't been able to focus on anything. Just been drifting like a raft on the Mississippi. Prepar

I spent all day, yesterday, trying to convince myself to get back to writing on Darian's Point , then this morning had a flash and realized I was just trying to unblock an idea about the story. Big idea, that I hadn't even considered but suddenly crashed through me, this morning, and made it even wilder. Rather than write it, however, I made some notes then dug into the part where Morrigan conjures up the harpies from The Dagda's sins. He's at the base of the Cliffs of Moher, using the powerful waves to help him cleanse himself of all he's done wrong. 1600+ words that I know I'm going to expand upon, as is usual for me, but it's getting there. Because I finally understood the how and why it happens. Initially I'd had it where Morrigan's furious that The Dagda impregnated Caera, a girl from a people considered beneath him and his kind, and she's driven solely by jealousy.  Especially since Caera is given a son. But she's also angry that he hur

Here's the rest of the moment between Morrigan and Caoimhín... ______ That froze Caoimhín in place. Was she telling him his fears had been realized? Was she telling him that golden beast had taken Caera? No...no, it couldn't be. She would not give in to him and he would never force himself upon her. Not while a guest of his father. It would be poor manners, at best. Not even the worst of the beastly men who'd been given shelter had even tried to do such a thing.  But The Dagda was not like other men, so would he? Morrigan seemed to ignore him as she continued. "What a lovely man he has always been. Tend to my wants and needs and desires, and perhaps I will notice yours. Perhaps. Perhaps not." She gave a soft laugh. "More often, not." Her voice drifted into sadness. "So many times it has been not." Caoimhín's mind whirled. She was verifying everything he had come to believe about the man. He was able to ask, "How do you know this?&qu