“Josh shot himself in the head,” Genenda told me through the phone and shock.

“Oh my God,” I said, through my phone and my concern.

Concern and shock and tragically little surprise.

We had agreed, during our time of separation, to leave each other be (except for the every month or so when we talked about how that was working out). We did make the concession of phone calls to each other when things got ruff (despite everything, we still know how to comfort one another). This qualified.

My name is Josh…but “Josh” was Genny’s younger sister, Annie’s, former boyfriend and suddenly that coincidence seemed a lot less funny. A lot of things suddenly did.

Josh was Annie’s boyfriend and I think, at one point, they even tried living together. I had met him a couple of times. Apparently, he had some problems – depression and a family that threw him out of the house and a host of other things that I am only aware of in the periphery. He had some sort of breakdown and threatened suicide. He was let into some place for a while and Annie took care of him. Her parents were concerned. Concern blossomed into ugly bouquets of fear when he expressed his desire for Annie to join him in mutual suicide.

Things got weird.

He was no longer welcome at the house. He moved in with Genny and Annie’s grandmother.

Things got weirder.

He moved out.

Annie tried to help him, despite her family’s (understandable) misgivings. But things got weirder still and they split up. He’d try and contact her from time to time. Including last night. He called her, gun in hand, trying to get her to visit him. She stayed with friends instead.

Later they found him dead.

Apparently he had fired the gun, while talking to Annie, a warning shot. A cry for help type of deal. Later, his mother came out to try to talk to him and he shot at her. From here the story gets muddled and I don’t have any real facts or chronologies.

Then Genenda tried talking about “us.” But my mind wasn’t willing to switch tracks so easily. My thoughts still followed Josh, about things left unsaid. At the end, he was public enemy number one in that house (understandably), but what was his story? His mother did come at the very end (too little too late) but she threw him out and when they visited him in the hospital he would not speak with his dad. What’s the story there? Are there horror tales that will never be told because inqueries will quickly melt into “My condolences” and “I’m so sorry” and “You did the best you could” and “There was just something ‘not right’ with him.” I don’t know. I have no way of knowing. I only met him a couple of times.

And where is this person who shared my name now? What corner out of time? What did he accomplish. What did he hope to accomplish?

What did he get out of this?

A tiny footnote in the journal of a guy who barely knew him.

In writing class we examined one student’s story. Touching, serious, and sweet – from the point of view of a little girl at her mother’s funeral, in the past, in the South, in their living room. People used to put the dead in their living rooms. We discussed who did this. People decades ago, said the teacher. People in the South, said someone else. The old fashioned said a student, they leave the dead in the living room.

“So do serial killers,” I added, helpfully. And you could hear the record needle scratch off the track of the topic. Serial killers kill people. I, apparently, kill mood.

Back to the story. It was a good story. Gave us the lonely view the youngest daughter during this strange time. Through her innocent eyes, the morbid practices we take for granted were better illustrated – people going up to the coffin and touching the corpse, then going into the next room and shoveling food while talking about the dead – normal to us, but strange to a little girl. We commented on the story and what could be corrected and made better. We were all stuck on the word “pungent.” It was not the type of vocabulary this character would use…so we searched for a better word. Icky and gross were suggested…but not used. Everyone pondered…

“Copiously grotesque,” I added, helpfully. All eyes turned towards me saying something halfway between a laugh and a reprimand. My eyes said, OK…I’ll behave. And my eyes did not lie…

OK – a few people have asked me, recently, how big Lenore will get. Also, she’s just a baby, so you’re not getting the full view of what an indigo is. So, here are a few pictures to give you a better idea (not of Lenore) from the website http://indigosnakes.com/

Enjoy:

How big can Indigos get? This picture should give you an idea.

And here’s another big, purdy snake:

Let me give you another frame of reference. There are a family of snakes (in North America) called King Snakes. They are called this because, amongst other things, they eat other snakes. They even eat rattle snakes. And they are pretty big snakes for North America. But what happens when a King Snake meets and Indigo? Well…here ya go…

“But Josh…is a beast like that safe?” “Yes,” I say. Let me demonstrate with this pic of a boy an his indigo:

“OK, they are tame…but are they cute?” Why yes they are, voice in my head. Here is a picture of pure cuteness:

“OK Josh, those are nice pics and all, but what I really came here for, was some hard core snake porn.” Sigh. Allright. Turn on some Berry White, ‘cause here are two consenting adult indigos getting it on. Ooooooooh baby…

And finally, here is a pic that just amuses me for some reason. The Indigo actually looks expressive. They are more sight driven than some snakes and they actually come up, bend at the neck, and look around (like he’s doing). His face seems to say, “All right…which one of you assholes dumped sand on my head.”

Today has been a good day – one full of pedagogy, macabre toys, and editing photos of my…snake. Allow me to ‘splain.

Today I had to teach a writing class. In my Advanced Short Fiction class, each student has to take a day and teach the class. Any topic we want. It’s a great exercise (we’ve done it in past classes). Everyone comes in with different backgrounds and offer neat little angles of writing that our one teacher wouldn’t have offered.

The problem was…we’ve done this three times before. What was I going to teach this time?

So last night I have a kind of crappy list of things to talk about (but no central theme). I recently picked up a writing book called Write Now! and was flipping through it for ideas. I find a few relaxation exercises…and they are almost verbatim matches of the exercises I learned in my acting classes (relaxing, breathing, character visualization, etc.).

And then it clicks.

Some of the things I’ve gotten good comments on in the past are character dialogue, characterization, and first person stories. I think, in large part, this comes from my theatre background. The same exercises we use to get character speech patterns and movement down are the same ones (I’ve found) that can be used for your character dialogue and descriptive metaphors on the printed page.

There was my angle. None of the other writer’s had that background. So I copied out example exercises from the book. Wrote down my own from past acting classes. And off I went to teach today.

It went very well. My lesson was WRITERS AS ACTORS. I explained the exercises. I told how most art comes down to the same, single celled evolutionary ancestor – storytelling. I took out the lists of character questions (got reacquainted with an old friend – Uta Hagen) from Bill’s classes. I was able to present everything in a cool, collect manner, and it all seemed to connect.

Then, Dr. Perkins (former English teacher at Eureka and the reason I’m in Springfield) said, “Can we do one of the exercises?” I have not done one of these in a while. I certainly haven’t run a group of people through one in several years…not since I directed “The Veldt” (remember Torrie?). But, my general view on things is that when confronted with something that scares or intimidates you, dive in head first and you’ll tread water because you have to. On my better days I actually follow through with this philosophy.

“OK,” I said.

So I dimmed the lights, used my best (not too overtly) hypno-voice, got everyone to relax, breath, control breathing, relax each muscle (one at a time), visualizing stress with colors (made that up on the fly), and, after enough time, got into the characterization exercises (picturing characters as animals, objects, and how that affects them). I then crossed the bridge from acting and explained how this helps wiht writing. I won’t go into it all…but it went really well…they wall went to Never-Never Land and when they got back they said it worked. Years of systemized procrastination trains one to think on their feet.

In fact one of them said, after I brought the lights back up, “I found the ending to my thesis!” I smiled, thinking, Excellent! I’m a genius.

I’ll try to remember this, when, inevitably, next week, I’ll be at my key board, pulling my hair, screaming, “I’M A MORON!!!”

Another bright note in my day…I’m now the proud owner, through an ebay bid, of the action figure of….you guessed…EDGAR ALLAN POE!!! Observe:

That’s right! The Edgar Allan Poe action figure, complete with: detachable Raven, karate chop action, and slip-silently-into-madness™ button.

Well, that’s all for now. Oh wait…I forgot something…oh yes! I have finally taken pictures of my “snake” and want to post them on the web. Wink, wink.

Thanks Torrie, for taking pictures of me playing with my snake. But enough porno allusions. Ladies and gentlemen – here at long last – making her premiere appearance – taking over for (but not replacing) my last familiar for my word-weaving wizardry (every writer should have one), Rocco, is that sexy lady serpent…LENORE!

Had Lenore out today and with the help of Torrie, took a little photo shoot of the little snake. Photos coming soon. Right now, I’m working, working, working, working on getting things organized with my thesis.

So for now…here’s some weird free writing stuff…

PAST FORTUNES
I once knew a gypsy fortuneteller who would tell fortunes, by the twilight of a convenience store sign, after they had happened. I told her she was always late. She told me she was always accurate.

I read a play that I’d never heard of, by Shakespeare, about a city down under the sea. I read a poem by Poe to a forgotten lover, torn up by another suitor before reaching her eyes. I read a lost bible passage and it made everything more clear. I read a tale born in Mark Twain’s dreams, but never brought to paper. I read Volumes I and II by a blind monk of Byzantium…and suspect no one else has…

Today was supposed to be a day off to get things done with…but I spent most of it clutching my stomach and trying to move as little as possible…

I can see the black and white noir setting, the detective pacing, cigarette spewing foggy phantoms in the air. He’s called everyone in the room together, in order to solve the crime. One person in the room is the criminal. It is a frightening bunch. By the fire, stands the Chinese Buffet I ate yesterday in Eureka (the good place was closed…so we went to the not so good place). Sitting in a chair, is the shifty eyed and nervous 24 Ounce Cup of double caffeinated super coffee (I drank in the am hours the night before). He looks guilty of something. Ah, but sitting, seductively on the grand piano, at the other side of the library study, is the femme fetal of our story, Miss Flu Virus. The fedora wearing detective, paces, lookes each suspect in the eye, and then says…

[cue lighting flash, power outage, and a death in the dark]

I really don’t know what the detective said. I’m not sure which suspect is guilty. All I know is that I woke up this morning with my body wracked by a sickness and pain in my stomach. I felt as though I was going to puke from the moment I woke up, till about 6 pm or so…but it never happened. And now it’s gone. Now I’m curious about solid foods, but only brave enough to try some tomato soup…

…and I was going to get things done today.

Instead, I kept trying to answer the very nice comments you folks gave on my last post…but I could hardly get halfway through reading them without doubling over in agony, looking at the floor.

But it’s past and while I feel under the weather still…all things being relative, I feel greeeeeeeaaaat!

So here is some weird free writing I found. The kind I did when I’d wake up and write before I was awake, before even going into the bathroom…weird stuff comes out of your hands before you’re really awake…

THEY’RE STILL REAL
“See”,” he said, “I told you they were real.”
I stared down the well and all I could do was nod.
I stared and I nodded and that was it.
The night turned to day.
And I swore off alcohol forever.
But it didn’t help.

What if, Rob wondered, what if this is Purgatory and I’m dead? What if salvation is an email chain letter I deleted without reading?

Another weekend. Another trip to Eureka. The coffee shop in Springfield, the halfway decent one, closed earlier than it’s normal, limited time, leaving me with an itching writing journal and no where else to go. That was it. Decided, on a spontaneous moment, to head to Eureka. Yeah…that would show Springfield. That would make her jealous. Maybe next time she’d keep her coffee shops open a little later…beg me to stay.

Drive. Top down. No radio. So off-key singing, on the road for me. Eureka. Motley crew of friendly faces. Rich, drunk, singing Nick and I any song we requested off him and his guitar and I had to smile, knowing that, at that moment, Springfield was sagging a little more than usual, thinking, “Damn…what do I have to offer to match that?” Not a thing honey…sorry…

Top-down run to the OP (I remember those). Nick and I trading degrading put downs. Karisa talking at the speed of sound. Trip back. Alex and Johny Law and the rest. Alcohol. Laughs. Hidden tensions (but I’ve been away…I’m not intimately familiar with some of these hidden tensions). More laughs on top of it all.

Then Rich takes me aside and tells me how he’s liked my little musings on this blog and how much we seniors (Dee, Amy, Katherine, and I) meant to him and his class his freshman year. And I have to say THANK YOU Rich. Those reminders are nice. You might be surprised (wait…no you won’t…you work in the creative arts) how you can, one day, feel like an acting/writing/painting/music-playing god, and the next day, be banging your head on the wall, knowing that you’ve been getting away with something for too long and the tax man is going to break your door down, at any second, and say, “There you are, fraud. You’ve avoided me long enough. Time to get a regular job like everyone else.” The reminders help. I don’t think you ever become independent of the reminders.

In that vein, I’d like to make a reminder. It’s easy enough to feel something towards a person(s) and just assume that they know that you know that they know that you know. It’s another thing to say it once in a while (like Rich did). So in that regard, I’d like to make a statement of the importance of my amigos from Eureka, whether they’ve flown the nest, are testing their wings, or just now bulking up on worms…and I’ve really worn that metaphor out, like a scratched record (oh…now I’m mixing metaphors – HA!).

Anyway, I just wanted to say how important the friends I made in Eureka – whether from my class (hey Dee) or from after that (hey Rich, hey Kris, hey Kurt) or even after my graduation (hey Karisa, hey Alex, hey Amanda) – mean to me (there are many more, too many to put here just now…but I think I covered everyone who might read this).

All you guys are fun and worthwhile folk with…well…call it depth, call it spirit, call it a candy coated filling. I’ve been away, I’ve seen other people. And there are many, MANY, out there who have no filling, no depth. They are tasteless, flat, and hollow (whether mentally, emotionally, or otherwise). Some of them are this way passively…others are worse and are this way aggressively, like suction-mouthed lampreys, sucking on everything to fill the void – sucking on beer on self esteem on emotion, anything to distract them from the encroaching approach of the big 3 – 0. And then everyone is hollow and they’ve sucked on everything and everyone is sucking. And that just sucks.

I’m not trying to paint the world in five shades of despair or anything. There are other interesting folk out there. I’ve met a few in Springfield (but most of them have graduated the writing program and I don’t get to see them as much as I like). I just wanted to say that the next time a bad vibe slinks down your spine (and they always do) to remember that the lot of you are talented, worthwhile people with soul and I know, I’ve been elsewhere and seen the other side of things and the contrast just makes it that much more apparent.

And the sun is coming up and that is long past my last call to bed. But, nocturnal as I’ve gotten, I do like a sunrise, because sunrises and sunsets are like fall and spring and fall and spring are like transition.

‘night kids…

OK, Karisa and I, through the magic of instant messenger spontaneously took off in a contest of bad Eureka College slogans. They just write themselves. Now read and laugh and marvel at how clever we are. Oh…many of them are based off the below photo of Nick. I’ll just put it back up. Look at it and read…

Ah…but in all honesty, I love my little brother and think going back to EC was the best decision he could make.