Author Archives: scrivnomancer

Did I ever tell you about my massive crush on Scully?

23 Sunday Mar 2008

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Had a dream last night.

It was a sort of episode of The X-Files…

I’m agent Mulder.

Scully and I arrive at a suburban neighborhood that suffers from a zombie plague. We spend most of the time killing zombies and saving each other from near death.

But the hoard gets too big and endless bullets are running low—endless bullets eventually exhaust against endless undead. Dream physics. We find the lone survivor in the neighborhood, a middle-aged woman whose zombie husband keeps chasing her, and we make for a house. But her husband catches up to us and grabs the poor woman. I fire my Glock, and, luckily my aim is off and I only glance his head because he grabs his wife, rushes us into the house and reveals that he’s only been acting like a zombie so that the flesh hungry revenants would leave him alone.

Scully and I barricade the doors but we don’t think that’ll hold very long and we’re at a loss. But the still living husband seems to know what to do and he’s been grilling hamburgers (from a huge supply of ground meat…probably from a summer cookout that was never meant to be in this doomed subdivision). He also has a large supply of beers. Scully and I are skeptical of the man’s sanity.

But the first zombie breaks in and lumbers towards us and the husband calls him by name in a neighborly tone and hands him a beer and the zombie’s held tilts to the side and it stops its rampage long enough to clumsily take the beer and drink. The husband uses the pause to hand the cadaver a burger…and the zombie starts eating it along with his beer.

More zombies shamble in an the husband repeats the strange, suburban ritual and it works each time and they are all milling about the house, rotting flesh and bone shamblers, eating burgers and drinking beer and if you squinted your eyes you might think it was a normal summer cookout in the burbs—small talk melting to moans.

And I, Mulder, realized, in one of my Mulder monologues, that the cure for this particular species of undead epidemic was hospitality…the power of the HEARTH—food and drink and a call by name and a smile and community…as apposed to screaming and running (never run from the undead, that just excites their aggression). Bt this was only a temporary cure. A few of the less decayed zombies could now think clearly enough to cheerfully speak to us and let us know that though they enjoyed this quick reprieve from mindless, rabid hunger, and this little reminder of the simple pleasures of life…as soon as the food and the beer ran out, they would revert to their killer, human-eating natures.

By now, all the zombies were contained in the house and the burger meat and beers were running low. Scully and I made the husband stop grilling, the zombies didn’t seem to mind raw meat, and we made ready to escape. But how to stop the spread of undeath? The husband had a plan. We locked all the doors and, still bleeding from his head wound, the husband led the zombies (who were starting to loose it again) upstairs…sacrificing himself. We set fire to the downstairs and fled the home.

Outside, Scully says, “Oh, no!”

I see a black neighborhood dog. It’s moving fast for a zombie, but slow for a dog, erratically zig-zagging. Crap. Scully is out of bullets so I raise my gun and shoot—we have to contain the plague—and I shoot and shoot and shoot and shoot—and the blasted thing won’t go down—and I shoot—and I really hate having to shoot a poor dog and I really, REALLY hate having to shoot a poor dog a few dozen times. It finally goes down. But our collective sigh of relief dies in our throats when the black dog’s large belly starts wiggling and several puppies burst out, running full speed in different directions…

“You have got to be kidding me!” I yell.

I check my gun, wondering if I have enough bullets, if I can brutally kill the puppies, if I’m even fast enough to get them all as they scatter, if they are able to spread the plague to other towns. And the sun is up and I guess the episode is ending and I’m angry that the zombie scourge is spreading, and as I become aware of my bed and the ceiling fan and a dull need to pee, I’m madder still that I had that whole lucid dream and didn’t take the opportunity to make out with Scully.

Need Your Help–Need a Name!

03 Monday Mar 2008

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I need some help.

And you (yes, YOU, the one reading this right now) might be able to help.

The lead character in my horror novel, Simon Meeks, needs a name change. I won’t go into the whole story…but his last name makes an unintentional allusion to some of his personality traits.

So…what name would you give to a misfit forensic pathologist, with an addiction to absinthe, love of silent films, and an overly personal relationship with the dead?

I’ll likely keep Simon’s first name…but I’m open to suggestions if you have a full name you want to lay on me. And so…shoot…I’m all ears. I can’t promise I’ll use a name suggested here, but you never know—when the book is on the shelves in the not too distant future, you might be able to say, “I got to name a character in a novel.”

Remember what the dormouse said…

29 Friday Feb 2008

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Dialogue with Merlin
I’m hanging out with some friends.  One of them, Merlin, leans jokingly, very heavily on my shoulder.  Someone says, “What are you doing?”

Merlin:  Just checking Josh’s personal space boundaries.

Me:  …do that any longer, and I’m going to lick your ear.

Merlin:  …

Me:  Don’t worry, man, it’s not sexual; I just need the salt.

And my shoulder is released.


Swallowing Quail Like White Rabbits Tumbling Down the Black Hole Gullet of the World Snake

Yesterday, a large shipment of young quail (frozen food for my pet indigo snake, Lenore) came in.  Lenore, freshly shed, iridescent, shining, and ravenous, was ready for her meal.  That day, for some reason, I had this intense, unexplainable, pregnancy-level craving to listen to “White Rabbit” over and over again…that in conjunction with Lenore’s feeding would have led to one of those strange, inexplicable moments…should someone have walked in—seeing me feeding dead birds to Lenore via 14-inch forceps—music blaring—Lenore, jaws distended, swallowing large prey items—me singing along with Jefferson Airplain:

“FEED YOUR HEAD!  FEED YOUR HEAD!  FEED YOUR HEAD!!!”


New Word—Lost Hangouts
My good friend, Brayton, and I were drinking coffee at CAFE AEON, discussing the incorrectness of the word “irregardless” (or the incorrectnessless of the word, if you prefer).  We decided, if you were going in that direction, to take it a few notches, and prefixes, further—and came up with our new word:  “nonundisirregardlessly”.  We suggest you start throwing it into conversation, because if you’re going to stray from the language, Chum, go bold!

Speaking of Cafe Aeon, tomorrow night (that is to say…tonight, Friday) is their last day before packing up and heading to New Orleans.  I’ll be there, tonight, for the final bash.  Anyone in the vicinity should come on out.  Promise not to lick your ear.

On a similar note, tonight (Thursday night) I drove to Chicago and to the RED LION PUB for what I thought was their last day before closing for lengthy renovations and rebuilding, only to discover the building dark and locked.

Sigh.

I’m loosing my favorite hangouts.

A Kindness of Strangers
A group of crows is a murder of crows.  A group of ravens is an unkindness of ravens.  I’m going to start calling a benevolent group of strangers a kindness of strangers.  I like doing this blog—one reason being I occasionally hear from strangers (sometimes from great distances) who comment on the journal.  I’m always tickled.  Here are a couple of the nicer bits of input I’ve received.  This isn’t a self-pat on the back so much as a way of saying thank you to those of you out there in internet land who have given me input…it’s always appreciated.

A message from Erica contained this:

Ok that’s enough. I make promises to myself that when doing a search on here, I will not go beyond 50 miles. This is to keep me from developing relationships with people who live further than I’m willing to drive. However, I’ve been reading your journal and just can’t help myself from commenting on a few things. Today I found new faith in the evolution of the written language, thanks to you. No, there has been no exchange of your published items and my blood, sweat and tears. I think this may change now though.

Recently, I’ve felt my brain slowly rotting from lack of literary beauty. The flow of language that sends shivers down my spine, makes me smile, the thing that connects you with the source… It’s that feeling some get when doing things they’re meant to do, when The Fates strike a cord of perfect harmony. Pleasure, I suppose. Sure, I could pull a book off the shelf and delve once again into worlds I’ve walked before, but I crave new things far too much.

There is, unfortunately, a missing element to many new authors. They have all the ingredients to make a mouth watering dessert but are missing the individual accents that make the whole thing worthwhile. A friend of mine is very in to plants and plant extracts and he uses spagyrics to extract the essential oils for use in various things. The outcome of the extraction is different depending on his mood, yet the flavor is solely his and all the better for it. This is the thing missing. Too much is written to please the general public, which is all well and good, but pointless if there’s no accent to it. No girth, no substance, no sparkly lights. Okay. Maybe I’m over-explaining. This is what makes me happy to say, “Yea! I’m a part of the human race!”:

“I could almost hear the gears turning and saw the light bulb over the head flicker precariously, the wattage far exceeding the fortitude of the filament. He was in the throes of an epiphany. He turned around, came back and delivered it unto me…”

“I wish the White Hen building would sprout giant chicken legs and run away like a Russian fairy tale.”

“I want to drink rum and beer and read ghost stories in a place that speaks and creaks, under the beer garden tree, over a congress of very large, and by now very literary, rats.”

“…this convenience store is like a nasty, self-fulfilling prophecy…one that sells tasty sandwiches and burnt coffee.”

You divest and de-fragment far too well. You remind me of things in my past that I wish I could do over. Yet now there is realization that the love of the language is still there, swirling in the ether.

So thank you for making my mouth water.

Wow.  Thank you, Erica.  That made my evening.  Seeing a few highlight bits from the journal, I thought, “Hey…some of that is pretty good.”  It was a mood booster that came at just the right time too.

And this came from Julie:

I know this is quite strange coming from a complete stranger but you are FUCKING BRILLIANT! Sitting here on the eve of my national board examinations trying to prep for one of the biggest accomplishments of my life I took a break from my mind numbing studying to screw around on the computer. Opened up myspace and saw you posted a Blog, I decided what the fuck lets read about somebody else to distract my mind from tearing its self apart from fatigue and doubt… and there I found it… the answer to my problem and the only damn thing that has made me feel better in the last several days. So I say again thank you, you brilliant, eloquent, exceptional person. I am indebted to you.

Thank you—thank you, Julie!  Man.  Ego boosts to the extreme.  Encouragement like that and I find myself able to turn to my inner demons and say, “Leggo my ego, fucker!”

Thank you one and all.

Oh…the sky is beginning to lighten up…it’s that time, lovelings.

G’night.

Hair today, gone to…man…bad pun…

22 Friday Feb 2008

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Dialogue With the Brothers Doetsch
We’re working out and it’s my turn, but I’m daydreaming (I do that allot) and my brother, Nick, gets impatient.

Nick: Y’re up!!!

Joshua: Asia!

Nick: What?

Joshua: Hmm?

Nick: Asia…what?

Joshua: Oh…I thought we were yelling out random continents.

Nick: What the hell are you talking about? I just said “go ahead” and…uh…oh…Europe….

No Shave February (the revolution will not be televised…just chronicled on social websites)
In an act of rebellion against the paradigms of our modern world—against FATE itself and the tyrannous stars, my friend, Brayton, hosted a Facebook event called NO SHAVE FEBRUARY, and cast the hairy gauntlet of audacity into the abyssal face of oppression itself! The manifesto was simple, join up and do not shave, under any circumstances, for the entirety of February. I agreed, mostly because I think it’s important to occasionally make strange promises to friends (and even better to keep them). We had to shave at the beginning of the month, so we could take a “Before” photo. I had not seen my bare face in a long time…in fact, there seemed to be a stranger in the mirror. So I did the most adult thing I could think of, when faced with an existential identity crisis, and made faces at my webcam for about forty-five minutes.




The Plot Thickens (the hair thins)
To add further identity confusion, a botched hair cut led to getting even more hair cut in order to fix it…which led me to having the shortest hair I’d had in some time. Bare face…shorter hair…oh my. I made more faces…






Wii Would Like to Play
Man…all those photos of me in one post. Pretty egomaniacal, huh? Speaking of egomaniacal, I recently saw Tom Cruise in his acceptance video for that Scientology award. Yikes!

I suppose a lot could be written about one’s reactions to this. For me though…it boils down to one revelation. I realized, after seeing this video, that all those rumors that Tom Cruise is gay…are totally false. Tom Cruise isn’t gay…he just fantasizes about #@!%ing himself (and I don’t mean just a little…just getting his clone, dressing up like lumberjacks and making out…I mean he really wants to @#$% the $%!# out of himself and @#$%!%$ and $@%$$%# and @$@#! breaking all the furniture in the bedroom while @%$!@$ing the !##$@#! and the dead raccoon and @#$%ing @%$# with the Wii controlling shoved up the @$#!, and @#$@% through the @%#$ing #%#$ #%$, shattering all glass for a mile radius…I’m serious…every mirror in the man’s house has got to be smudged).

I do like Jerry OConnell’s parody. I didn’t realize he was that funny.

Zen?
Anyone up for a moment of zen?  Okay.  Here ya go…

PLUTONIAN CAB

19 Tuesday Feb 2008

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More eavesdropping fun…

In the 7-11 in the city I grab a water and a sandwich and a man spouts his theories on how the recent rash of strange weather, winter tornados and angry ice, was brought on by the government to kill certain people and cited other examples of weather controlled assassination as support.  I wish—WISH—I could have stayed and recorded this…but I was in a hurry.

But I digress…

I’d apologize…but I’ll only digress again…

The law of double negatives says it will all cancel out in the end…

And I’ll be sinless—halo clean and steel wool scared…

But I digress…

It’s been a weird set of weeks.  Almost a month ago, I got back from Sundance, falling in and out of sleep, on the plane, coming in and out of the slipstream of WORD JAZZ playing through my iPod headphones.

Soon thereafter, I packed up again for Springfield…

UIS MASTERS THESIS CEREMONY
On January 28th, I went to down to UIS for their annual Outstanding Masters Thesis awards ceremony—as A FORMER RECIPIENT, I was invited.  It was nice to get out of the house and mingle again (not to mention dust off my decaying social skills…weeks of outline writing and a growing addiction to instant messenger and social websites have desicated any social graces I may have had…the first few people that I tried to socialize with, in person, I just hit in the side of the head with a stone and said, “Chunga!  Chunga-chunga-chunga!”). 

I got to see a few old faces, meet a few new ones, and had that kick-ass, ego-amphetamine-boost feeling of having your reputation proceed you.  I got some nice comments about my thesis—praise for my unique descriptions, research in mythology and voodoo—and kudos for my “in depth knowledge of drugs and the drug subculture” (think back…put yourself back in your high school shoes…and try to even conceive of a world where a school official would praise you for this).  I’ll let you lovelings in on a little secret, about the drug thing:  partially, I research it…but mostly, I make it up.

Shhhhh…don’t tell anyone.

They even had my READ poster up in the room.

I got to talk with my teacher/mentor/friend Nancy Perkins—I was excited as I was scheduled to meet her and several of my old UIS writing buddies for dinner the next night.  She had some bad news though—a member of said writing group, Chad Baldwin, had passed away a week ago.  I was floored.  Throw in all the cliches—he’s too young, thoughts of my own mortality, etc.—I felt them all.

Chad Baldwin (December 27, 1971 – January 22, 2008)

In the graduate level Creative Writing program at UIS, students came and went, but there was a core group, handpicked by Nancy Perkins (from past students).  We were a very tight-knit group—everyone got along—everyone was different with a very different, particular writing style and voice—we all complimented each other, had something to show each other—all of us impressing each other.

Looking back, I see how lucky I was to be part of this unit.  In other classes or writing groups, you’re lucky to find one or two others that you trust as much, like as much, and who genuinely challenge you as much…and I had a whole class of super peers.  Those were fun classes.  The fun bled out of class too…we would share drinks at Bootleggers after every class, talk shop or just BS—we’d see each other at parties—were part of discussion panels at writing conferences—went to Nancy’s wedding and visited her in New England a few summers back.  I was blessed by the storytelling gods to be with these people and they are one family group that I thoroughly regret not being a part of on a day to day basis anymore.

Chad was part of this group.

Chad was cool (the term “cool” is overused and has become a generic positive term…but he alway struck me as cool).  I liked Chad’s stories, particularly his characters.  He’d play strange, underground word games with friends.  I hadn’t seen Chad for well over a year, but I heard that he was working as a cab driver, and handed out prayer cards kind words to strangers who looked like they were having a bad day.  Once, Chad gave me a gift:  a word.  What a cool gift to give someone, a word.  He handed it to me, before a class, said he thought I’d find it useful.  I did.  In fact, I probably overuse it.  But I don’t care.  It’s my word.  It was given to me as a gift and I like to show off the things my friends give me.  I still have the word, can still reach out and touch the word; it’s sticky tacked to my writing desk, a tearaway sheet from a word-of-the-day calendar with the word chthonic and a definition.  I’m very glad I still have it.

So here’s to Chad.  I miss him.  I missed him before he was gone.  He was one of the people I was hoping to see on my Springfield trip.  But I’ll keep his word and a pocket of memories.  I’d like to think he’s driving a cab somewhere between worlds, helping lost souls who had a bad day and earning two coin tips.


PHONE SEX
I did get to see Nancy though, as well as David and Joanna (two other members of the afore mentioned cadre of writing students).  That was very nice.

Also, while in Springfield, I got to see Torrie…though, as always, not for long enough…but still, we got to hang for a bit, have Josh n’ Torrie conversations, discover a new rum (Kilo Kai) and after a few of those, mime our very similar cell phones mating with each other on the bar table (hey…back off man, we’re scientists!…well…she’s a scientist…I just like Bill Murray references…).

I also got to make a quick stop, on the way home, and see Val, drink, and watch old Universal monster movies.

OUTLINE BLUES
This freaking outline!  How could it stretch out this long?  I could not seem to get it done, could not figure out why it made me feel frozen, useless, talentless.  Why?

I think it’s because I’m an intuitive person.  I can weave prose, images, words, in the moment, and I feel comfortable.  I’m good at improvisational thinking, reactive, with a problem or stimuli or prompt I can go on the spot (I was the student who didn’t mind an on the spot 5 minute random writing prompt in class).

But my weakness seems to be certain areas of technical discipline.  I’ve gotten lazy and picked up a few bad habits.  This outline is about discipline, planning ahead, methodically analyzing, plotting, structure.  I’m over-analyzing, second guessing, stopping…and when I stop, creatively, I stagnate, and I drown.  I get scared…I want to abandon discipline and rely on my natural talents…my subconscious is much smarter than me.  But I’ll get better…

How did I reach this level of introspective insight?  I’m almost embarrassed to admit it…but I was reading a Spider-Man comic (I take that back…I’m not embarrassed, not even almost, I have little use for socially obligated embarrassment—I have my flaws, but one thing I’m good at is letting pretension fall out of whatever orifice is handy).  I was in a bookstore, working on the outline, got frustrated, and picked up a Spider-Man comic.  Spider-Man was talking to Captain America…who was lecturing my childhood favorite superhero, telling him that he needs more disciplined focus…which Spidey resists because he’s more used to going with the flow, reacting in the moment, using his amazing natural abilities (super speed and strength) and quick wit.  Capt. America, who doesn’t have that level of natural ability, relies more on forethought, slowing down, and disciplined focus (and so imparts these things to the web head).

Yeah.  That’s what I lack right now…discipline and focus.  My mind scatters in a thousand directions and possibilities, crawling up every wall.  I stick to that…to possibilities and I hate to let go.  But I got to pick and choose.  I have a big project and natural ability isn’t enough.  Normally I just fling myself into my imagination, in the moment, I can fly slinging strands and webs of words…but analyzing my technique is making me freeze up and I fall, fall, fall…

Ah well.  You and me Spidey.  Forever.


Yeah…I was a Spider-Man fan from way back….

The Read Lion
I finally needed a change of scene.  I borrowed a lap top, drove into the city, heard some dude give his theories on weather control assassinations, and ducked into my favorite haunted, British style pub, drank rum in the 120+ year old building, and finished the outline, just across the street from the alley where John Dillinger was shot dead.

I turned it in.  We’ll see what the editor has to say.

And that’s about it for now.

To sum up:  Here’s to Chad.

Colonel Mustard is a Pussy

24 Thursday Jan 2008

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Prologue:  dropping eaves

“Are you easily offended?”

“What?” the young woman said to the middle-aged stranger in line with her for coffee at the bookstore.  I’d gotten my coffee and was at a table, with my notebook.  I readied my pen…just in case.  I’ve learned to keep my eavesdropping radar up in public places.  One never knows when usable dialogue drops out of a stranger’s mouth.

“Are you easily offended?”

“I…no…I guess not.”

“Good.”  He smiled, encouraged.  “Did you know that a mouse ejaculates, on average, every five seconds?”

Bingo.  That’s a keeper.

Down to Business and Board Games in My Head

Hello, lovelings.

It looks like I’ve been away from the blog for several weeks.  Sorry.  It’s been a rough several weeks…kind of bad.  Well…that’s not totally accurate.  Most of those weeks have been good.  The holidays were fun.  I’ve forgotten a few resolutions on schedule.  Shits n’ giggles.  But one underlying aspect has been hard…

…the outline for my novel.  I’ve been drowning it it.  Consumed by it.  Sluggish progress.  Lots of staring at a screen.  Lots of feeling little and talentless and stagnating thoughts.  For some reason I’ve had a lot of trouble bending this to my will.  I was trapped in my room, trapped in a circle of thought, stagnating.  Trapped.

Don’t worry.  I fixed it.  I turned inward.  Got sensitive.  Introspective.  I went into my head, via mind’s eye.  I found the damaged soul fragment, a shard of me, one of my dimensions, the little, shivering, Insecure Me.  He jumped at my approach, jittering and nervous.  “It’s alright,” I cooed to my little soul fragment, “I’ve come here to fix it.”  Still sobbing, the little me, Insecure Me, let down his guard and walked towards me.  And then I blew his head off.  That’s right.

It was me.

In the library of my mind.

With the revolver (I lost the candlestick sometime in my teen years and I usually save the lead pipe for bashing in the skulls of inner demons).

Insecure Me fell to the floor.  I cleaned the mess.  I hid his body in a barrel of quicklime and when the police knocked at the door, there was no evidence at all—the perfect crime—ha-ha.

I know in this age of Oprah-wisdoms we’re instructed to tenderly reconcile with all aspects of our being.  That’s nice, as far as it goes…but sometimes, I think, it’s more helpful to commit brutal homicide on the little voices in our head that tell us we’re no good.

Fuck them.

Well now, catching up would take too long.  But here’s some random things that come to mind from the last couple months…


Another Saturday Night

I started the day out in a literary discussion, and ended it with my pants off at a party.

I woke up on a November Saturday morning, unusually early, and headed to Volo Bog.  Every month they have a “Bogs and Books” meeting where they discuss some book or another.  That weekk they discussed Beowulf (the epic and the recent movie) so I thought I’d stop in.  It was small and the age gap was big…but I think they were excited for some young blood I the discussion and I can hold my own in a mythology/folklore/epic discussion.  One of the women who runs the bog visitor center and the activities there was very excited to hear that I was writing a book (more specifically, that Volo Bog was featured in a chapter).  I had fun.  I haven’t had very many literary discussions lately.

That night, I braved the cold to Bloomington, to the every-lovely Karisa and ever-armed Johnny Law’s graduation party.  As it turned out…I was just about the only one to show in the vicious weather.  Even so, there was drinking and bizarre merriment and I really, really, REALLY missed seeing these folks (among others) during my purgatory in 7-11.

Gaze now, if you dare, at our eccentric fun:

Zombies Make the Best Girlfriends Because They Like to Moan in Bed

I was the go-between between Twilight Tales and Cafe Aeon and worked out a reading/signing for Book of Dead Things on November 25th.  I got to MC the show, read a story, and sign books…so it was all fun.  The Twilight Tales folk are now in love with Aeon.


Holidays

Christmas was fun and relaxing.  Saw the extended family.  I got a new bed…a water/matress hybrid that is as warm and comfortable as a blue whale’s womb.  It’s the first step in fixing my sleep troubles and it’s gone well.  Saw friends during New Years Eve.  Drank large quantities…played rock star…even lit some sugar over absinthe.


Sundance

So I just got back from the Sundance Film Festival. 

I’m very tired.  More on this later.

Night, kiddies.  In conclusion, remember to arm yourselves with those revolvers and lead pipes.  Self doubts and insecurities are everywhere.  They can even spread from person to person…so sheath those soul condoms and play it safe.