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

...and so am I. And that's without dealing with anyone, in person. I made a dinner of baked yam and ham, buttered corn, green salad (since all I had was lettuce) cornbread, and cranberry sauce from a can. Shot my blood sugar through the roof so I spent half the day drinking water and remaining calm.

One good thing about this trip to Hong Kong is, China don't like it when you do political things online. So I'll be doing a blackout from December 1 to December 9. My first reaction is basically to go fuck it, but I've made a commitment and can't let that be interfered with.

Of course, they might not even let me into the country. That's a concern that's been raised by some in the office, considering my FB page, Xitter account, and Instagram...not to mention the liberals and progressives I support in various emails. That would be funny; get all the way there and have to come right back. Maybe I should have a contingency plan, just in case.

It's Friday, about noon in Hong Kong. I have contacts there. If I am refused entry, maybe I could work it out to where I can hand my paperwork off to them. Not a great way to deal with it, but it's the best I can come up with.

I'm also updating my info, everywhere. Cheat sheet for my passcodes. Print out everything I can for the move-in and move-out. And at the same time dealing with serious concerns about Adam's early life in sex work being in DW...

At least, I was until I heard about a book called A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara. One of its characters has a lot of horrible things happen to him, including sexual assault as a child and forced prostitution...so I cheated and read the outline in Wikipedia. Even that was rough, but nothing at all like DW.

What's even better? It was up for a Booker Award and won a Kirkus, and it's put out by Doubleday Publishing, one of the biggies.

I think this was Adam's way of letting me know I'm being too much of a worry-wart.

Emily Jackson, of Elite Minds, came up with this amazing image to use for Dair's Window...and I don't know how she did it but she got the essence of the story without having read any of it. Just one more reason to deal with professionals. I may ask her to design the book cover, once it's done.

If it ever does get done. I saved the opening chapter to a PDF to send to Emily, to help with future promotion...and I noticed I hadn't attributed the poem that Adam uses near the end of it, to its author. Nor did I have the title. So I went looking for it.

I was pretty sure it was written by Ranier Maria Rilke, but apparently not. It's thought of as being similar in style but not actually his. And now I'm worried I can't use it. His work is mostly in public domain, including translations from the French and German, because he wrote mainly around the beginning of the 20th Century.

But if this is a reimagining of his work in French, or an homage, that could still be under copyright and I'd need permission to use it. When I now have no idea who actually wrote it. Does anyone else?

Aucun ange Celui Qui s'est faufilé dans mon monde Au-delà de la peur de ceux Qui ne se soucient de rien. 
Aucune créature Celui Qui a l'habitude de se régaler D'un Sans armure Au-delà de sa connaissance C'est sa seule vérité. 
L'accepter C'est mentir à mon passé Sansbesoin de correction 
Pour moi Le connaître C'est rejeter tout ce que j'ai De moi-même Afin de pouvoir reconstruire Un monde dont Je pourrais êtreplus qu'une partie. 
La terreur de tout ça Est exquise. Ma peur Me pousse À accepter La beauté qu'il offre. Pour que je puisse me reposer... Enfin... Enfin... Me reposer...

It's just, I really like the poem and feel it fits Adam's story, perfectly. I could offer a poor English translation, if you think that would help figure out the author...

I'm all set to start in on reworking Chapter Seven of DW when the beginning of Chapter Four starts bugging me. It's too easy and nice and calm...so I go back in and give Adam a reason to initiate his wariness about his current situation.

He's used to the visitors being gentle with him. Some don't even want sex, just a moment of companionship with an attractive youth.

This one isn't like that. He's very nearly brutalized by a man who calls him Robert. Indicating the guy is using Adam as a stand-in for someone else...and the decent Christian man is more concerned about Adam's torn shirt than anything.

Then as he's taking hits off a bong in his room, Rory tells him men come to them so they can do things they can't do at home or in the office. And Luc refers to how he was taken out of his home because of his stepfather's abuse.

Which makes Adam grow very unsettled...and consider expanding on his drug use to deal with it.

That wound up adding about six-hundred words to the chapter, even after some cuts. It's still on the short side...2150 words...but it feels a lot more honest.

It's unsettled me, as well, however. Seems I keep working up the easy way into the story and then, just as I get all self-satisfied, Adam comes along and says, "But it needs this." So I get back to work.

I really do wonder, sometimes, if I'm a psycho.

Squeegee kids at Queen and Spadina in Toronto, 1996. 
Hanging out at Future Bakery, used cd stores, goth clothing stores, all the amazing vintage clothing stores. So many old greasy spoons where one could procure a $6 pitcher of beer. Speakers Corner and Electric Circus! More clubs and live music bars that covered every genre of music you could think of all the way to Trinity Bellwoods.

Adam's in Toronto and not liking it. Too cold, thanks to the wind coming in off the lake, and too busy thanks to all the construction and people bustling about. Also, everything is in English, first, not as much French. He sets himself up in a youth hostel and works out how to get around, and is realizing he can control his life, if he's careful.

He's rebuilding his world after losing everything. Family. Friends. Home. Shelter. His books. His journal. Everything but the clothes on his back and a book in his hand that's water-damaged. But he's also finding out just how strong he is.

Some of what he lost cannot be replaced, but what matters is he no longer has anyone in control over him. He's his own person. One thing I need to keep in mind is, he's still sixteen so some things he cannot do. And I don't want him to come across as prematurely adult.

But he's also scarred by his parents and brother rejecting him, so he's lived through something few boys have to deal with. He learns early on he has only himself to rely upon. That alters you.

I think this whole part of Adam's life is to establish how feral a creature he is, and how connecting with Dair...and having Dair love him...and growing to love Dair and others surrounding them bring his back to humanity. Decency and love for others.

I guess. I'm not sure, yet. I just know it's going in the right direction, for now...

The broken beauty of this photo Cuts deep into my soul and Calls forth wishes and Dreams of forever… Doomed to nothing…

Adam's poem when I showed him this image. I don't know poetry so can't tell is this is any good or just plain crap. But he doesn't care.

No poet is born complete...and any who thinks he was, is not a poet.

He's grown something of an attitude about his poetry, Adam has. Here's another bit he wrote.

A silence covers my world As a blanketComplete Warm To leave me cold As if it were nothing No footstep heard No intake of breath No cry for one to respond To acknowledge To let you know The silence is not that of life Nor is it deathIt is nothing... 

I love it when my characters become more real to me than anyone else I know. And I feel that way about Adam, now. 

Read through them both and made some changes. Re-arranged a couple parts to help the flow of the story. Added some details to better explain things while cutting a couple others, to set up Adam's memory of the older gentleman having him read Victor Hugo's poem,

What I had before cut into that impact, but no more. He shares a couple ditties he wrote in his journal, meant as jokes, and he is introduced to Milton Acorn's work, but the poem as noted in my 11/20 post is what shifts the ground under his feet.

I snuck in Adam's deep, quiet hope his parents will come to take him home from that boys home...but he is losing that hope as the darkness in him grows...until he and Reynard fight, and he walks away. The betrayal complete.

I'll go through that, tomorrow, then get onto the next chapter. Can't remember if it's 6 or 7; I've redone the numbering and broke one in half, so no telling.

I don't want long chapters. I've heard from too many readers if the chapter is too long their eyes glaze over. I don't mind doing that. It makes the story seem more immediate. I just am wary of the table of contents. Can they go up to a hundred chapters?

Guess I'll find out.

Just for the day. I didn't want to do anything or see anyone, but the book fair in Hong Kong intruded on my peace and I grew pissy. I was polite, but wound up spending a couple hours on it then lots of paperwork to sort through about everything else. And the day's events and...and I never should have gone online but had to and shifted over and................

Now I need to reread everything I have written so I can make certain it's proceeding properly. The part leading up to Adam leaving Montréal was rather draining. It reminded me of an occasion where I damn near walked all the way from Carbondale to Scranton, at night, in boots and a mac, intent on finding a bus to the airport and leaving without a word.

I'd been tricked into traveling up there from Houston, by my close cousins...and learned I had been outed to them and they wanted to know if I was HIV positive. Couldn't do that with a phone call, no; they had to see me face-to-face.

Blindsided me. I wasn't and never have been, and told my cousin so, but that didn't seem make a real difference. And there was so much tension...I didn't want to stay.

I went for a walk to clear my head and just kept walking. Figured I'd ask them to ship my suitcase and things to me. It's about 16 miles and I was probably halfway there when I convinced myself I was overreacting and returned. 

I should have trusted my gut.

I noticed glares of outright hostility from some members of the family, had plans changed, and finally saw that people I'd considered closer to me that my own brothers and sister did not reciprocate. I was a relative, nothing more. If I'd left, I might have been able to never feel that from them.

So...I let Adam take over in DW and do it right. And it's cut deeper than I realized. But feels good.

I just needed space from it to accept that.

That's how I was, today. And sick. Apparently a soup I made, hoping to eat healthy, had something in it that I was allergic to. Maybe broccoli or cauliflower? But I spent an hour in the bathroom dealing with it, and now I'm beat. So here's the rest of yesterday's chapter.

On and on my mind pinged, left and right and around and all over, until my thoughts settled on a book my older gentleman had brought me. The memory of it kindly emerged to calm my every thought down to one gentle memory. 
It was an anthology of poetry. In French. The binding green and ornate with gold trim. Its edges worn and faded. 
“I found it in a shop close to here,” he had said. “Just a couple blocks away, on rue D’Antoine.” Then as he handed it to me, he had asked, “Will you read to me this poem?” 
Titled Demain, dès l’aube by Victor Hugo.
He carefully settled onto the chair, with myself at his knee. As his hand caressed the back of my neck, I read, softly, slowly, with tenderness... 
Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne, Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends. J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne. Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps. 
Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit, Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées, Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.
Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe, Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur, Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur. 
Tomorrow, at dawn, as the countryside is bathed in light Will I leave. Because I know you wait for me. I will travel through the forest, I will go over the mountain. I cannot remain away from you any longer. 
I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts,See nothing outside, hear no sound, Alone, unknown, my back bent, my hands clasped, Sad, and the day for me will be as night. 
I will not gaze upon the gold of the falling evening,Nor the sails in the distance receding towards Harfleur, And when I arrive, I will place upon your grave A bouquet of green holly...and of flowering heather. 
When I was done, I could not think of what to say, to him. I had joined with a man lost in grief on a journey to the grave of his loved one, and I felt myself pacing him as he strode on and on. And my emotions was close to overwhelming.
No thanks came from me, except with my eyes holding tears. His smile revealed how deeply I had touched him. Then all he did was give me a gentle kiss on my forehead and caress his shivering fingers through my hair...and leave. 
And I knew I would not see him, again. 
Now looking back, with nothing to distract me except a city in slumber passing by, I understood that was the moment poetry had become my obsession. That gentle poem had spoken more deeply to me than any lesson or book or even friendship.
That is when I’d begun to seek a different way to life. Something to grasp onto beyond my day to day existence.Rory, Luc, Eric, they were caught in a current of life that had become too easy and comfortable. Trey, Carlos and Tevean, I could now see they also were entwined in it. Their games. Their posturing. Their arguments. Relying more and more upon a chemical enhancement to keep from facing the truth of their existence. A truth that would eventually destroy them. 
And I had to admit, I was so close to following them until this encounter with Reynard.Even until now.
Because deep within, despite all evidence to the contrary, I had continued to hope my parents would grow to understand and accept me, and come to take me away. But Reynard had killed that belief. 
In truth I suppose I should have thanked him. I might not have given up on that belief until I was already too far along the same path as the others. 
Of course, that Path was still a possibility, for me. I already felt a growing need of something to fill the void that had borne its way into my heart. And to know my books...all of the poems that had brought me life and kept me on the proper path...they were back at that home, and I could not return for them. This hurt my heart even more, since some of them could not be replaced. Old editions. Out of print. Treasures with poems I had copied in careful hand into my journal. 
Which was also there. 
Perhaps what I was doing was a mistake. Perhaps I should return to the home and accept my punishment, then plan for a better organized way out. But my head had no control over my heart...or even my feet, and I could not bring enough thought forward to consider changing my direction. 
I passed into a neighborhood of tight old apartments and new blocks, with more and more residence towers. Ahead, the lights of the city center grew brighter and brighter even as the night grew darker. Clouds boiled in, hinting at late snow. My legs and back were killing me, and I ached horribly, but still I walked. 
Finally, I was entering the city center and an inter-city coach passed, headed the same direction as myself. I watched it continue a few blocks down then turn to the left. When I reached the same place, I found I was on an overpass at rue Berri. A few blocks down, a coach was turning into a side street, followed by another. Somehow, I had managed to find the Station Centrale d’Autobus Montréal.
Fifteen kilometers from the home, I later learned.
I entered the lobby, saw the time was just past two a-m, and noticed there would be a coach to leave for Toronto at six-thirty. I purchased a ticket, found the lavatory, washed my face in wonderfully steaming hot water, cleaned my jacket and jeans as best I could, and sat on a bench, my book open as if I were reading it, but thinking of nothing except that I was nothing. And on that early bus I left my home city. 
Forever.

I thought I was done with this chapter, for now, but it's become much more demanding and involved and in need of care. So I spent the day on it and let Adam lead me into his deepest thoughts as he walks away from the boys home he was forced to live in.

------------

I know I felt pain from Reynard’s fists and feet, but it registered only in my head, not my heart. It meant nothing to me because... 

Because I was nothing.

I did not really know or...or truly understand what that meant except... 

Except I no longer existed. 

To Maman. Papa. Gra’mere and Gran’pere. Anyone who was of my blood. 

I was dead to them. 

I was nothing. 

Just as I was nothing to that decent Christian man, except to make him an income he never shared. Nothing to Rory except someone he did not like because he could not manipulate me. Nothing to any of the others. 

They would now search my room. Find my money and journal. Toss my books into their library, to be ignored. Give my clothes to the boy who would replace me. And I would be nothing, to any of them. 

How can I be nothing when still I feel the cold? When sharp icy air enters my lungs to be expelled as steam? When my heart beats fast and eyes water against the breezes whispering around me? When still my body aches from my brother’s anger? When one foot sweeps before the other and I move forward? Physically move forward. 

How is this nothing? 

I had no sense of time or place. I felt that it was after nine...maybe almost ten in the evening. The streets were dark. The few businesses closed. No restaurants to peek into with the hope of glimpsing a clock. No one else around to ask. Not that it truly mattered. 

I was nothing, so time was, as well. 

Somehow I found my way to Sherbrooke, which would lead me to the city center, so I continued to walk. Past rough structures and open spaces and areas for parking and commercial buildings, then apartment blocks and restaurants. Joined only by the little traffic of those returning home late from their day. 

I had finally begun to work the wet pages of my book apart so they would not stick together as they dried. My gloves were clumsy so I removed them, and my fingers did not like the icy air. But all that mattered was the care of my Stendhal. 

On and on I walked. In the chill night with only my damp jacket to warm me. But I appreciated how the cold kept my aches to a minimum, and helped the cuts on my face to clot. Sometimes I even put my arm with the still wet part of the sleeve up against my eye, which felt very good. 

Two times cars pulled up to my side, pacing me as I walked, and in them were older men asking me if I wanted a ride. Both times I only gave them a shake of my head and kept going. I could not deal with anyone who wanted anything from me, right then. 

As I continued, my thoughts remained scattered. Anger at Rory for writing my family. Fury at Reynard for finding me. Fear I might be arrested and returned to that decent Christian man’s home. Worries about what I could do. Thinking I should find the Gay Youth Group to ask for their help...then shaking off the thought for fear they might also turn on me. And mixed through it all was a sadness that I was now, without question, an orphan. 

That if I was dead to my parents, they also were dead to me. 

But I could not accept that thought.

Adam's doing what he must to survive...

-----

This city was more cold than Montréal, from the lake's winds and snow blowing in. It cut through me as I hurried from the coach to enter the lovely, warm terminal. But I could stay in there only for so long; A guard was watching me. A teenage boy just arrived. Alone. Only a jacket to wear against the frigid breezes. No luggage. Early in the morning. Cuts and bruises on his face. Walking like an old man. With no question, he would make a call to the police about a runaway, and I would be returned to that home. So I only used the facilities and made myself leave. 
Toronto was madness. Construction everywhere. Towers of glass leaping to the sky. Hissing traffic. People who rushed about. So much more-so than in Montréal. At once, I was lost in its madness. At least the cold had lessened my pain. The coach had been warm, causing me to ache and hurt if I moved, so I had slept little, but in this city’s wind and snow I was too busy shivering for that to affect me. 
I wandered along Bay Street, growing more and more certain my decision to come here had been a mistake when I happened to notice the back of one of the curved towers of city hall. I had seen photos of it when I still was at school. I thought at least I could sit in there for a while, away from the chaos, and let my mind waken and let me form some kind of plan. 
I quickly strode around to the city hall's entrance, found a small coffee shop inside and had tea and a croissant. Enough to warm me and fill me, for now. 
To begin, I needed money. I had forty-two dollars left in my pocket. I had seen a notice for a youth hostel on a bulletin board at the coach terminal, offering rooms for ten dollars a night. I had known of a hostel up by the ski resort we visited, and had met some of the young people staying there. They loved the communal setting, low cost and close camaraderie, so I had memorized the address off the notice. This might be a good temporary solution, only I did not know where it was. 
So I gathered my courage and approached a guard to ask him.I told him that was where I was staying, but that I was lost. I held my copy of Stendhal in one hand and pretended I was much younger and more foolish, something many people think all sixteen year-old boys are. 
He led me to the information desk and they gave me a local map then showed me the hostel was just over a kilometer away. 
I sighed. "I now see I turned left instead of right," I said, laughing at myself. "My...my mother claims I do everything backwards." 
The woman behind the counter frowned at me. "Your family's at a hostel?" 
"No," I said, focusing on the map to hide my sudden fear. "My friends. We came from Ottawa on the coach, but they are not very easy to travel with. They want to do everything their way." 
The guard was eyeing my face. "You guys got in a fight?" 
I shrugged. "Only some pushing with Rory, and I fell. That is why I paid not much attention when I left the hostel. I was angry and...and I wanted someplace to sit and read my book." I held up the Stendahl. "This, I bought yesterday. But Eric and Rory prefer to run around. I think I am the only one who brought money enough with me." 
"I think you ought to stay someplace else," said the woman.Ooh-la...careful, Adam. 
I shrugged. "Tonight's room is already paid for, and we return to Ottawa, tomorrow. But I will not travel with them, again. They are idiots." 
I thanked them and made myself stroll away. Then I found the hostel and talked the desk clerk into letting me register early, so I might enjoy a nap. 
Enjoy? To wake up stiff and my body aching, stomach empty, and head hurting too much to formulate a plan for my time there? Hardly. I really wanted a long hot bath, but all they had was a communal shower.And I had no clean clothes with me. 
I left to search for a cheap place to eat, and passed a coin laundry close to the hostel. With several people inside, using it. In the middle of the week. While sitting and paying little attention to the washers. And dryers. 
So...I entered. Carefully. Sat on a bench near a long wall of dryers, reading my book, until I saw a man close to my size bring a trolley of his wet clothes over and slop them into an empty one. 
I watched them tumble. Almost mesmerizing. Then I casually looked at him. He was reading a thick book. Probably from university. So I opened his dryer and pulled out two pair of briefs and white socks. They still were damp, but I did not care. I set the machine to continue and hurried back to the hostel. 
I left my new items on the heating grill of my room and stood in the communal shower for fifteen minutes, just letting the hot water soothe me. Fortunately, no one was else around. 
I still was hungry, but I had been hungry before.