-NEVERMORE-

The Smell of Coffee Attracts the Dead

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 23:29:53 GMT

Being away from everything is like being dead.

Not in a morbid or melodramatic light...just in the sense of being inaccessible and not accessing.

I had this vivid dream, years ago—I was dead. The afterlife was just my parents home. Only for the dead, like me, the ceilings were exceptionally high—small cathedral high, with a sort of inner balcony running a square around the house. And I (and occasional other wayward spirits), existed solely (souly?) in that square.

I walked around the square.

And again.

And existence was looking down—gigantically down—at my family and friends, doing day to day stuff. I am close. But I cannot interact. Cannot quite see it at their level or angle either, just looked down through my square.

And every stupid, little thing has the kind nostalgia that makes it hard to remain standing. They’d brew some coffee, and I’d be like, “Ye Gods! They’re brewing coffee. I used to brew coffee with them like that. I used to drink it out on the deck, with them, like that.”

And this went on. I occasionally took a break to comment on something with a random, wandering spirit, share a few jokes, make a few new Plutonian acquaintances—because I can be a funny-self-depreciating-charming bastard when I’m not stuck in my head—and it’s a few laughs between spooks. But they move on and by the time I turn my head again, for another comment, it’s a different face, or none at all and just me on my little inner balcony.

It was an emotionally engaging dream, that stretched through quite a bit of dreamtime, and was, oddly, very realistic. I really thought I was dead.

But I woke up.

Breakfast probably tasted very good that morning.

Well. Let’s be honest. It was lunch.

It wasn’t a horrifying dream. It was just funny, sad, and nostalgic at turns. There are some BNL songs that feel like that dream.

Anyway, where was I...

Oh yeah...Norway.

I’m away from everything and everyone. And I find myself getting little glimpses of what all my family and friends are doing...but not from the ground angle, and not really interacting. Emails and posts and Skype video—I’m looking down through my little square and saying, “Ye Gods! I used to have coffee with them like that.” Occasionally, at work, I turn away and make a comment or a joke with one of the new faces. And I wave the severed hand I keep at my desk. And I explain that, no, not all Americans have severed hands lying around (just us patriotic ones).

I’m gone. But I haven’t been forgotten (always flattering). And occasionally, my loved ones perform these odd seance rituals involving click-clacking on lettered keys, and they conjure a little, ethereal image of me or sometimes just my disembodied voice or just cryptic textual messages manifesting on the Ouija board computer screens.

The inverse perspective is a sort of post-apocalyptic plotline where I’m the only one left alive, contacting the dead with my own rituals (only in my inner movie, I don’t fuck up Richard Matheson’s book).

And then... My God! Are you having coffee?

So I thought of that dream (on the off chance that I wasn’t laying the parallels on thick). Again, I’m not invoking a death comparison for a sense of macabre angst...but more for the Weirdness of the experience. It’s been Weird.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this.

Mini-Hoodoo & the Unreliable Narrator

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 03:42:46 GMT

A withered old Gypsy woman sold me this little pumpkin-headed doll. She claimed it would give me the power to finish my novel and make it the bestest penny dreadful ever. But, she warned, for the doll to activate, I would have to tell the story of how I acquired it in a completely fictional manner.

True story.

Single White Writer in Search of Welcome...

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 17:35:58 GMT

Well that’s disappointing...

The Oslo House of Literature may not become the writerly hangout I was hoping for. I’d nested in on a comfy corner table, ready to get some work done when I was told to vacate the seat as the area was only for people who were going to eat (my expensive coffee did not qualify). I haphazardly gathered my things, went to the other side of the room—more cramped—less table space—less conducive to writing and looked around, trying to puzzle out the now mysterious laws of etiquette in the now alien place—unsure of how to get to work, let alone explore all the wonders I thought were on the upper floors. What I thought was paranoia blossomed into unwelcomeness.

I watched the waiter fix up the still undisturbed, would-be table, as if a plague rat had died there and liquefied.

No wonder the same waiter gave me the evil eye during my whole first visit.

Maybe all the bindings on the wall were just decorations. Maybe this is really a House of Dinner—the books more a theme than a function (the way a Rain Forest Cafe allows you to feel like your in the jungle without any actual heat or having to be around animals—you could see books while you eat without having to open them or see the unsightly way they are birthed or the smelly creatures that make them). I chugged my coffee (a double shot—and now I’m jittery like Rikki-Tikki-Tavi on crack), exited like a piece of riffraff, and walked back to my apartment...which brings us to now.

I’ll have to keep searching for a proper away-from-home writing nest, but for now, I best just get to work.

Pity, as I was looking forward to writing out tonight.

NaNoWrimo Day 1: Day of the Dead

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 00:56:51 GMT

Did you have a merry Halloween, lovelings?

Did you all hail to the pumpkin song?

Did you recall youth in the cinnamon scents and the sticky sweat/saliva seal of a rubber mask?

Did you look at a Jack O’ Lantern and contemplate metaphors for inner light and the power of a wicked grin?

Did you find the that fine line between a joyous sugar comma and acute diabetes?

I had a night of it, here in Oslo, dressed as a mad-goggled Jack the Ripper. But I still miss Halloween back at home, with friends, in Ray Bradbury’s October Country. Perhaps there will be pics to come. I did manage to snap a few, not in full costume, before I collapsed at about 5 am.

All Saints Day
Right. Back to work.

Today is All Saints Day.

Today is Day of the Dead.

Today was the first day of serious work on polishing my horror novel, Strangeness in the Proportion. The Prologue of the novel begins on the Day of the Dead. So this all seems fitting.

What’s funny is going back and doing research after the fact. I know of the Day of the Dead and have a pretty good general idea of it (one class trip, in junior high involved heading to Chicago during the holiday and checking out a Latin culture art exhibit on the Day of the Dead…it was a memorable trip). But I’m not an expert. In said Prologue, I have some children eating sugar-spun skulls as a bit of imagery (seems like something to do during the Day of the Dead). I’ve since looked it up and found out that…not only are such skulls plausible…they exist.

It’s all connected!

Today was mostly more organization and shoving this freaking book back into my head space. I’ll start racking up a real word count either tomorrow or Tuesday. I have about 100,000 odd words to sift through. My strategy is to sprint through the novel in the first 3 weeks, make the corrections that come to me (or that I’ve noted in the meantime) without dwelling and then taking a week to look at the book as a whole and make further adjustments from there.

Stay tuned for more hints on the misadventures of Simon Meeks, my absinthe addicted, Buster Keaton-stepping, hyper-eccentric forensic pathologist.

I preach death to self-doubt…but that’s not because I’ve purged myself of that insidious demon. To the contrary. Earlier today I felt very small and useless. That’s an ongoing battle. And so….

…the self-doubt kill of the day: I covered the monster in honey and buried it in a fire ant hill. Self-Doubt screamed and begged for mercy. I put in my earbuds and drowned it out with some Danny Elfman and "Thriller", and got to work. Before it died, Self-Doubt mouthed, “I’ll be back.” I told it that’s ok, I’ve got a prodigious and wicked imagination.

*The Belated Demon Doll of Key West*
I promised to retell the story of how I met Robert, the reputedly possessed doll of Key West. Sorry I couldn’t get to it for Halloween, but I’ll do my best to properly tell the anecdote by this coming weekend.

Give your doubts a dismissal...with a bloody axe!

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 00:08:47 GMT

Happy pumpkin season and witching hour.

Remember to follow the Ignus Fatuus glow.

And ask Stingy Jack for a lantern.

Once upon a time, I won a novel contest. Many and many a year ago…

And now that’s finally heading towards fruition. My editor contacted me. White Wolf has given the go on continuity and such. Time to dig out the current draft of the manuscript…shove it back into my head…

November, which is NanoWrimo month, will see me on my own novel scramble. I’ll be polishing about 100,000 words (give or take). Conan dialogue writing by day and novel by night.

“All work and no play…makes Jack a dull boy.”

Thankfully I won’t have time to type that all over a page or on the walls or ceiling. That never leads to anything good anyway. Though I can make pretty nifty faces threw axe-holes in doors. But I digress.

So.

Novel.

What’s it about?

Well, while writing twitter-sized micro stories (140 characters a story) I did manage to distill it down to six little sentences:

I met Jane D. at work. She tells me who hurt her. Her hand tightens around mine. She smiles. This is love. This is rigor mortis.

Also…going over my notes…I did manage to find this handy, sophisticated, visual-plot flowchart that outlines the many nuances of the novel.

That’s all for now. Check back for more. I’ll surface from the pile of writing from time to time over the month, to update you all on the gory particulars of an unraveling mind and a deadline. Good luck on all of you participating in NanoWrimo. Keep me updated. I’ll keep you updated. And we’ll all get out of this alive.

Deal?

Remember, carpal tunnel is the enemy. Stretch! Limber up.

And self-doubts are little imps best brutalized with pipe wrenches, chainsaws, and falling anvils that you create in your head. It’s not enough to just say they’re dealt with. You really gotta anthropomorphize them and imagine brutally slaying them.

It works.

Do it.

I want to start hearing you all comparing self-doubt kills of the week in bloody detail. I want the kill counts to wrack up with the word counts. Splatter those pages with gory ink!

Hurrah!

Semper fi!

Kobra Kai!

Do or die!

Go!

<input ... ><input ... >

...TO BE CONTINUED...

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 22:26:59 GMT

Where were we?

Ketchup. Catching up.

I let another week slide by between my half-time break in the recap of all that happened during the radio silence—which means more stuff transpired—so let’s quicken pace to get back to the near present, lest we forever mire ourselves two skips n' a jump behind the Now…

OK…I’m not even going to organize this with conventional chronology. I mean, eventually our molecules are going to separate and information is going to break down and dissolve—it's individual moments that are important—so screw organization, I’ll just sloppily jot this down as randomly and quickly as it comes to my brain and fingers.

But to give it a structure, let’s lean on the visual and you can participate in a metaphor with me. Picture a funky deck of cards. Each card is an individual moment-memory-thingy, a Tarot of my recent events in Oslo. See the deck? Solid in your mind? I’m shuffling it…I try and impress you with a nifty feat of shuffling prestidigitation…and bungle the whole thing at an adorably crucial moment and—SNAP—cards everywhere. 52 Pick-up!

What do I grab first?

…ah…it’s…

*The Ace of Plastic Bags*
Walking home from the subway, one night, with the Japanese lyrics of a song about a giant robot from a Godzilla movie stuck in my head…I noticed it…yes…the plastic bag was following me.

Through an odd confluence of wind, the plastic bag was more or less hovering, darting a few feet this way and that, at the level of my head, neither falling nor blowing away, in a kind of American Beauty sort of moment. It followed me for several paces like this…

…so I punched it in the face.

Don’t look at me like that. You have to be stern. Otherwise you’re the soft-knuckled fool in the city that all the plastic bags follow and swarm.

…oh my…the next card is ominous…an archetypal representation of minor pestilence…it’s…

*The Nine of Swine*
Had a bug. May or may not have been the Swine Flu. They take that seriously in these parts. I’ve never had a job demand I stay home sick for a week. I wasn’t that sick. I was ready to beg them to let me back. I was in my old, temporary apartment--four white walls in a cramped room and no internet. Got a little reading done. Went a little mad. Had to go to the doctors to get a note so I could get sick leave. They made me wear a mask and took me to the infectious room where other sad sops in masks sat. Boredom was the worst part.

Give a flu a name and people go nuts.

…and the next card is…oh…that is encouraging…it’s…

*The Two of Positive Press*
Sometimes, late at night, I Google myself.

Hey, don’t look at me that way! It’s just an adult game of Peek-a-boo—a bit of reality affirmation—if I type my name (“Marco!”) and something answers back (“Polo!”), I still exist.

I stumbled upon a VERY NICE REVIEW of my podcasted story, “Blood, Snow, and Sparrows”. [Hmmm...that link does not appear to be working...but trust me, it was sweet review. --THE MANAGEMENT]

Also received a comment on a stranger's blog regarding that same story.

I got another bit of nice press via Twitter. Yes, Twitter. I know. Yes, I hopped on that. Look, as near as I can tell, the Cult of the Trendy and the Cult of the Anti-Trendy pretty much worship in the same way: they let the actions and opinions of others dictate their actions and opinions. I don’t have time for pretensions (or anti-pretensions), only enthusiasms (the difference between pretensions and enthusiasm is the same difference between the nervousness of a high-stakes investor driving his new sports car, wondering if it’s sending the right image to the world—and the pure joy of a kid riding her sparkling new bike in the mud).

Anyway—TANGENT ALERT—people are still figuring out what to do with these new communications technologies. We’re making it up as we go. And some people are using Twitter to challenge themselves to write ultra-ultra short bits of micro-fiction (whole stories in 140 characters or less). Inspired by my fellows, I wrote up a dozen or so over the last week (fiction stories I make up are marked by a #TCTC hash and not to be confused with the bits of my real life that I make up).

I’ve been linking them to a London Times Tweet-Story contest that is still ongoing. At the bottom of the article, it explains how to enter if you’re interested. And I got noticed. I was mentioned as a favorite in another London Times Article posted Saturday.
…and the next card…oh…it’s one of the Major Arcana…it’s…

*The New Apartment*
I am now situated in my new apartment. I like it. It’s cheaper than I thought I’d have to spend. I get along well with my flatmate and his two Italian greyhounds (a mother and her puppy). It’s in an old, charming apartment building and not an ugly new one…and so has high ceilings (which I appreciate after my last cramped room), good space, and my bedroom has a wonderfully large window. My new bed is a year old and apparently belonged to a diplomat prior. I asked my new bed if it would write me references and it agreed. There is a tree outside my window, and I’m at branch level, and it’s close enough to hear the wind-through-the-leaves sound that trees make if I open said window. There’s also a spooky basement that you have to duck down to walk through to get to the laundry machine—there’s groaning stories down there.
…next card…another Major Arcana…

*The Viking Church*
In my quest to see all the locations in my little Oslo Guide, I visited a little cemetery and church, built by a Viking King in 1080—just a walking distance from my apartment. It’s the oldest standing building in the city, surrounded by an old cemetery on a hill.

Better still…they don’t lock the gate at night.

I had the place to myself. Lit bright in the front, near the church, but dark-dark in the back and full of…atmosphere. Now, I am an atmosphere fiend. Some people have chocolate. I have atmosphere. And atmosphere is not a spectator sport. You get what you give and I can create quite a bit with quite a little…at least for myself (First rule of Josh: ENTERTAIN JOSH…if others get entertained too, so much the better). I did not have to put forth much…this was a smorgasbord of lush, creamy, creepy-bittersweet moods.

I went back, a few night’s later for a more extended stay. I wandered about and when my eyes adjusted and I got brave enough, I visited the dark back of the cemetery by the angel statue and a leaky well. Then the place just seemed charming and inviting and I listened to the last hour of the audio reading of Neil Gaiman’s, The Graveyard Book, smoked rum-dipped cigarillos, and explored every inch of the place (or tried to…I’m sure there are more hidden inches to find).

It was a good…moment…very in the moment…no future or past practicalities to muddle the mind. And the end to one of my favorite recently read novels was all the more poignant.

I bottle particularly good vintages of atmosphere and save it for later.

…next card…oh…it’s a good one…it conveys wandering souls and a fool’s prerogative…it is…

*The Ferry Fatuous*
I’m all about the cheap entertainment and the ferry to the various islands in the fjord of Oslo is free (or at least…I already have a monthly travel pass and it’s covered on that). So I decided to X a few more spots in my guide book. I like the ocean and I like boats and it’s nice to know I can take a boat ride whenever I like.

My target was Hovedoya, the first island, but I stayed on the boat for the round trip (past Bleikoya, Gressholmen, and Lindoya) and hit Hovedoya on the way back.

The island is mostly forest preserve with a few boating places and snack shops on some of the shore. I was in search of the ruins of a 12 century monastary that I read were there—wasn’t sure exactly where—but I found it pretty quickly.

Another spot I definitely liked. Very peaceful. Just a small trickle of visitors coming through here and there. Sat on an old well, covered by boards with a slight crack through them—and I wondered what they were keeping down there…

Mostly, the ruins are just free standing walls that from a sort of ceiling-less maze. But one of the turrets was still standing and (since there wasn’t any sign telling me not to) I went up the stone steps…which led to a little space on the second floor about the size of a really good tree fort. A little window allowed me to look outside. I sat there for the better part of an hour, undisturbed.

I’ll have to remember the spot when the weather gets warmer again…I think it’ll serve as a good reading nook.

…next…card…is…uh oh…it’s Death’s younger, less terminal cousin…

*The Phantom of Indefinite Enforced-Leave*
Funcom had a great purge of employees this last Tuesday. Very sudden. It was announced to everyone at Tuesday’s morning meeting. Then, one by one, we were called down to individual meetings to see if we still had a job.

I survived. I was told my place there is pretty secure.

The plan is now for more streamlined teams and—if things get richer and fatter again—to hire back those on enforced leave.

Friday I moved up to the 4th floor. Where once I was in a dark, barren corner (by myself) I’m now around friendly faces (and slowly learning the finer points of socializing again) have a window view, and even a plant. Granted, I distract easily, but I plan on trying really hard to…hmmmm….what?

Well…there’s probably more cards on the floor, but what say we cal ourselves caught up and start a new hand, yeah?

Cheers.

London Calling

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 16:38:48 GMT

I've been writing Twitter-sized micro-fiction stories over here: http://twitter.com/JoshuaDoetsch

And today, one of my stories got mentioned as a favorite in the London Times.

Check it out!

Not bragging...just very far away from home and can't post little achievements on my parents' fridge no more.

Next, promised blog entry (the sequel to last blog entry) coming soon. Promise.

PS - This week was Banned Books Week. I was originally against banning books...but now I see the perhaps unintentional genius behind it. What better way to get our children to read than to say, "That? Oh...you don't want that...that's too dangerous..."

D'em Coffins What Float On d'e Ocean

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 23:51:11 GMT

“Oslo is a city without a city culture. Nobody here comes from a city. Everyone comes from somewhere small.”

This was told to me while we were ordering drinks at the bar at Dr. Jekyll’s Pub. I found the idea intriguing, but also, I really had to pee.

Eventually, we got our drinks and made it back to the table with the others. When I finally got to the bathroom, I was greeted by wide-mouthed gargoyle-headed urinals, and I thought, “I’m home—jiggity-jig.”

These are the palpitating jubilations one feels before paying a bar tab in Oslo, not after.

*Absence Makes the Grinch’s Heart Grow Three Sizes Fonder*
So I haven’t updated the exploits in a while. The excuses shall be presented in alphabetical order:

-”A” is for apathy.
-I was sick with what may or may not have been the swine flu.
-Funcom quarantined me in my old apartment for a week.
-My old apartment lost it’s internet connection.
-Was then busy moving into new apartment.
-Zebras ate my homework.

We’ll get back to all those points…but I wasn’t really suffering from apathy. But then I only said that “A” is for apathy, so the statement remains correct.

*The All-Father Has a Bus Pass*
When I met the god, Odin, I was waiting for the bus and in between tracks on my iPod.

He was the only other person at the bus stop. He was dressed in a ragged, colorless coat of oily textures. Maybe homeless looking…maybe not. Greasy, tendrils of gray-white hair hung off his head and a beard to match.

One eye was alright.

One eye—the left eye—was dead.

Something awful happened to that eye. Either that, or he lost his original eye and H.R. Giger is on the Norwegian health plan for fabricating prosthetics.

I say dead eye, but not dead like a shark’s—this eye could still focus, or more accurately, point. I was looking him over because he looked like an interesting character (and you have to keep a hidden Rolodex for things like that) and he looked up with his good eye and pointed the dead eye at me.

Eyes are a favorite descriptive point for storytellers, used and overused (kind of the “Stairway to Heaven” of character description), so I hate to use a cliche involving eyes piercing me…but dammit that dead eye was very stabby—like rusty-coffin-nails-jabbing-your-skull sort of stabby.

He stared at me and I tried, but I couldn’t maintain the gaze and had to look away. Something was inexplicably disturbing about him, beyond a messed up eye. And he kept staring at me, more and more rusty coffin nails puncturing my periphery.

Then I got on the bus.

There were ravens cawing. I don’t know if they were his. Or maybe they were crows—I’ll have to look that up—corvids anyway. Here they have black heads, tails, and wings, but bodies the color of ash.

*Viking Ships Down the River Styx*
Funcom has stacks and stacks of a handy little pocket book to hand out: Oslo - A Poor Man’s Connoisseur Guide to Happy Living in One of the Most Expensive Cities in the World. The book is only slightly shorter than the title. There are a lot of nifty locations listed. I’m kind of making it a mission to visit all of them.

A few weeks back, I visited the peninsula of Bygdøy which juts into the water south of where I work. There are beaches there and other attractions. First stop…a viking ship museum!

There are three ships there, all wood, all well over a thousand years old each, all incredibly well made, and all more or less preserved because when a ship was retired, a some person of importance was buried inside of it, beneath protective layers of clay. And so the ships become interesting to both history buffs and sepulchral enthusiasts. To prepare a soul for the Afterlife journey, they are buried in a fine ship, with treasure, weapons, food, supplies, and even dogs. That’s going to the Underworld in STYLE. Some cultures only give you two coins in the eyes for the public metro.

I saw various interesting artifacts including a pieces of wood with nordic ruins meaning “unwise person” and a glass cup that was already an antique when it was buried over a thousand years ago.

*No Tan Lines?*
After the viking ships, I took the bus to the end of the line to explore some of the beaches of Bygdøy. Rolling topography and trees make it so that you really can’t see the beaches or ocean from where the bus drops you off so I just picked a random path and walked. Trees gave way, salt filled the air, and I walked right out onto…a nude beach!

What happened to puritans?

The vikings ate them, you say?

*TO BE CONTINUED…*
Stay tuned for the rest of my misadventures during my blogging hiatus—they involve swine flu, drama, boat trips, islands, a 12th century monastery, cemeteries by night, and an attack by a plastic bag…honest.

Cleaning out bookmarked pages...

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 02:39:22 GMT

I'm not saying it's going to happen. I'm just saying it wouldn't hurt to be prepared...

Check out these morbid little takes on fairy-tales.

Are you a Ray Bradbury fan? Read this. Takes 30 seconds. One of my favorite mini-mini stories in a while.

Hmmm...so this is what would happen if Bjork had made I Robot.

I like the idea of people doing acoustic covers in the back of black cabs whilst they drive. And I liked this cover of "Creep" (it's in fact the best acoustic cover of "Creep" played on a ukalali in the back of a black cab whilst it's driving out there). I saved this before I knew of any connection between Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman (or even who Amanda Palmer was), so my opinion is unclouded...

Ever wonder what goes into the process of producing a book - from the words the author types to the delivery of bound, printed books? This is how it's done. No...really...it is...

Voodoo wins soccer games.

A Bedtime Parable

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 20:53:45 GMT

[Sorry, the story, or some version of it, has been submitted to one publication or another and has been taken down. Stay tuned to hear if it has a new home. --THE MANAGEMENT]

Don't Panic

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 02:02:34 GMT

"If you hear a voice within you say ‘you cannot paint,’ then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced.” ~Vincent van Gogh

*Replace "paint" with other word as needed.
*Repeat as needed.
*Consult a physician before cutting off ears if above steps fail to silence the voice.
*Absinthe binges are recommended, but not advised.

Living Near the Past

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 02:01:13 GMT

Apartment hunting, in Norway, using Google-Translate. Found a place with an apparent temporal anomaly as it translates to: "Quiet residential area close to the past."

I think I may have walked by it, on the way home from work, just south of nostalgia.

I Am Citizen Insane

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 23:23:24 GMT

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. Try not to repeat a song title. It's harder than you think.

Your Artist: Radiohead

Are you male or female: Faithless, the Wonder Boy

Describe yourself: Subterranean Homesick Alien

How do you feel about yourself: I Am a Wicked Child

Describe where you currently live: Inside My Head

The first thing you think of when you wake up: Go to Sleep

If you could go anywhere, where would you go: Sail to the Moon

Your favorite form of transportation: Exit Music

Your best friend is: Where I End and You Begin

Your favorite color is: The Gloaming

What's the weather like: Permanent Daylight

If your life were a TV show, what would it be like: Life in a Glasshouse

What is life to you: Jigsaw Falling into Place

What is the best advice you have to give: Down is the New Up

If you could change your name it would be: Bones

Describe your type of work: Paperbag Writer

Your favorite food is: Coke Babies

My soul's present condition: Optimistic

The faults I can bear: You Never Wash Up After Yourself

How would you describe your love life: Punchdrunk Lovesick Singalong (but at the moment: Nothing Touches Me)

What are you going to post this as: I Am Citizen Insane

I want to be a cause without a rebel...

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 22:56:45 GMT

A few nights ago, I felt intense stomach pains.

Couldn’t tell if I was going to be sick or if it was just a plumbing error. I was sick of wondering about it and wanted to do something proactive, so I decided to take a quick walk around the block, walk it off, speed the metabolism along—the danger being, if I was really sick, puking and collapsing on the city streets just before midnight.

Outside.

Nice, nordic summer evening. Slightly chilly breeze. Walking on a bridge over tracks. Lit windows running over the surrounding mountains in the distance. Enjoying myself.

PAIN.

I instantly realized this was a bad idea. But I did not want to concede this fact to my smug gut (it would never let me hear the end of it) and so I kept walking, further and further from my apartment.

7-11

I stopped and bought a Sprite on the off chance that the carbonation would settle things.

More walking…

Pains subsiding. I started to enjoy my walk. Oslo is an easy city to walk in. You can pretty much get anywhere by foot (though some cross-city walks are a bit of a hike). Lots of greenery. It’s not the kind of city you have to worry about walking in at midnight.

This was maybe the second time I was wandering around in the city after dark (the dark doesn’t happen for very long in the summer here). Cities at night fascinate me—and so I kept walking.

I walked by a tiny movie theatre with a poster for Public Enemies. My former apartment-mate had complained about it the week before.

“I already know the end,” he said. “He dies doesn’t he?”

This is of course the end to any story if you don’t stop it soon enough.

“Yeah,” I said. “He was shot dead, right across the street from my favorite pub back in Chicago.”

“Nice.”

That’s the Red Lion Pub. John Dillinger was shot across the street at the Biograph Theater, next to a diner I like to go to after sessions of Twilight Tales to eat, talk shop with other area writers, and play the occasional game of Call of Cthulu.

So I found myself staring at the movie poster, suddenly missing open mic night at the pub, spooky stories, fish n’ chips, Joe the bartender, the large tree that inexplicably grows from out the cluster of buildings in the middle of the decked beer garden on the second floor, and the very fat, very literary rats that occasional skulked through.

A Norwegian walked by, and looked at me strangely for a long moment—a guy in a fedora staring at a poster of a guy in a fedora late at night.

I drank more sprite. Walked. The combination of carbonation and movement worked, and the stomach pains died with a death rattle burp (NOTE: Death-Rattle-Burp would be an excellent band name).

With the pain gone, I realized just how restless I felt. I’d planned to stay in and go to bed as I had work the following morning…but I kept walking…

I walked past a statue of Winston Churchill.

I walked past the American Embassy. It’s a very ugly, imposing building. I chuckled because something someone said at work was true: when you walk by it, the empire theme music plays…

I walked by the royal palace.

People watching is a free hobby.

Restless and restless and I kept walking. Suddenly, I realized I’d gotten down to the city center and to Karl Johans Gate—the equivilant to Beal street or Bourbon Street (or Duval Street for you Key West fans)—lots of foot traffic and tourists and street performers. I’d previously only taken the train down here.

After a little more wandering, I hopped what might have been the last bus home.

Take that, stomach.

Beer Friday and the Living Dead

Another Free Beer Friday has come and gone at Funcom.

This time around, after achieving a buzz on the roof, I came down and played some Left 4 Dead.

Then another late night walk into the city…

The House of Literature

On Saturday, I had the fortune of finding this place, Litteraturhuset (The House of Literature)—the largest House of Literature in Europe (from what I read).

I bought an over-priced coffee from their cafe (but not all that much more expensive than an overpriced coffee from home) and worked on some writing outside where they had tables and candles set up (these people love, LOVE to be outside during the summer months…which I suppose is an indication of the winter…).

I’d like to go back and find out more about their programs for writers.

Look Ma, I'm on CD!

An audio reading of my story, "Blood, Snow, and Sparrows" can be found in disc form from Pseudopod (it's story number 121).

You can order the disc. But I believe the story is still available for free as a downloadable podcast HERE. Go there and give her a listen and leave a comment there or at their FORUMS.

Pseudopod is a free, weekly podcast of short stories of horror (or at least the dark and the strange).

Ever tune you cello to the wail of a whale?

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 01:55:50 GMT

“I was on mushrooms and my girlfriend turned into my sister.”

“Were…were you having sex?”

“No. We didn’t have sex because of that.”

“Wait a sec…you don’t have a sister!”

And so go the conversations on the roof at Funcom on Free Beer Friday (that is, on July 17th…that’s the Beer Friday before last). That’s right, where I work there’s free beer, after hours, at the office, on Fridays, and we go out on the roof to drink it—here in Oslo, Norway. If you use Google Earth, you might even be able to find the spot.

Later that night, some co-workers and I ended up at a club called BLÅ (or “Blue”). We sat in the outdoor section, drinking beers by the little river that cuts the city in half. It was around midnight, which means the sun was actually down. The brick wall by the alley was painted in such a way that a light bulb jutting out the wall became the glowing eye of a crocodile.

The music playing inside was dubbed, by our group, as “Whale Migraine.” It was dark and moody to say the least. The music led to the following conversation, when Oliver, a British guy I worked with, commented on it (slightly paraphrased):

“It’s like an orchestra tuning on a beach next to a dying whale—like they’re tuning their instruments to the sounds the dying whale’s making. Like cutting it up and sticking amps inside it.”

“Inside it?”

“Yeah, like inside its blubber.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yeah, but that’s bloody poetic… But horrible. Man. I hope no one ever does that—hope we didn’t just start something. They’d be dragging whales out of the ocean, left and right, just to have those exquisite, poetic deaths.”

“Like raves in the woods…”

Oliver rolls his own cigarettes with Lucky Strike tobacco. I only write that down, just now, because it happens to come to mind.

*The Story So Far…*

When we last left off, our hero (yeah I just made myself the hero, so what?—get you’re own damn blog) he was getting settled into Oslo, Norway after accepting a writing job from Funcom, writing dialogue for their Age of Conan game.

So what have I been up to…

Writing lots of dialogue at work. It’s a sweet gig. The last week saw me typing out dialogue for an entrail-reading priest. “I will show you fear in a handful of guts.” My boss got the reference when he glanced it and liked it. And somewhere in my skull, T.S. Elliot and Hannibal Lecter are dancing...

The week before last I turned in my paperwork for my official work Visa. For the first time, I got to physically use my blasted degrees—got to show them off so that I would be eligible for my “Specialist” visa. The HR woman at Funcom even wrote up a letter saying how awesomely irreplaceable I am and that is why they had to hire me instead of a native (which is mainly what your are doing in the process of requesting a work visa).

Awwwwww….shucks.

My Masters degree is highly valued here. One girl at the company even told me that she heard some of the higher-ups were happy to get a writer on my team to move forward with certain things and talking like I was “the second coming of Christ.” Wow…don’t know what to make of that. I mean, I just BS and make sh#$ up…its the artists and programers who have actual skills. The HR woman (who takes very, very good care of me) said they were looking for higher degrees more than experience because education is easier to prove to the government than experience. I laughed and told her I was having the reverse problem in the US. All this when I was just getting to a point in my life where I was becoming jaded towards my education and joking about using my degrees as coasters—and then life slaps me in the face for complaining.

This beer friday found me playing a game called Werewolf with my co-workers. It’s a sort of elimination game where you must lie to your fellows, kind of like Mafia but with a few nifty elements added in. While, acting as mayor/hunter, I shot and killed the final werewolf, saving the village, in the first game—I did not fare so well in the next two games as I apparently look guilty even when I am not and was hung by the villagers when I wasn’t even a werewolf. There is no justice like mob justice.

And I also went to the doctor a week or so back…

Not to worry anyone, but I needed to get checked out. I went to a sort of clinic place, one step below ER. Long story short…nothing was really found and I’ll see another doctor soon for a more thorough look over. Various tests were taken…including…an examination of the prostate….ugh…

…double ugh…

Not the sort of overseas adventure I was looking for. Then I settled the bill, payed my money and the last lingering shreds of my dignity, and left. On the bright side, it was very, very cheap. I mean I would assume someone would have to pay much more for that kind of treatment on a recreational level.

*News from the Editor!*

Many moons ago, I won a novel contest. The book has been in development hiatus lately, but I finally heard back from the editor. The publishers are finally good to go, he’s going to give it a look over, and further drafting willing, we should be done by the end of the year or so. More as it develops.

*Zombie Walk Revisited*

“Leave it to you to be tarted-up in a zombie walk in Norway mere DAYS after arriving in the country for the first time!”

Jill wrote that on her JillKill twitter. Check it out and the website her and her husband, Jude, run over at Killer Works (for all things horror).

This of course reveals my selfish motives in doing the Zombie Walk a few weekends back…I apparently have a reputation to protect.

Found another pic:

But fear not, friends. We all know what the one weakness is of the shambling dead…and that is kung-fu wielding priests!

Moving to Norway -OR- The Zombie Plague: and the art of making friends

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 23:43:17 GMT

Do we have a signal?…

Testing…

Testing…

OK, lovelings, looks like we’re back up and running and ready to bloggity-blog-blog.

…I still think “blog”-”to blog”-”blogging” as a verb sounds explicit, like the act of having sex in a swamp (Swamp-Thing victoriously carried his true love into the steaming sunset and they blogged happily ever after.).

Where were we?

Long story short, I’m in Oslo, Norway. I made a sudden decision to work for Funcom, a video game company, and more sudden move to Oslo to write for their Age of Conan computer game.

I’ve been here nearly a week.

Let’s recap…

*Goodbyes*
I made visits with several fine folk in the weeks before coming to Oslo, and finished it up with a goodbye party on July 3rd. It was a good turnout. Really good. I have the fortune of knowing a lot of fine people who fill in the nooks and crannies and the pantheons and the plots of my life. You all weave into a tapestry that is very precious—more so than I might regularly iterate—every stitch of you. If nothing else, 4,000 miles puts that into perspective. Growing up, I was a very shy child, with only a few close friends. I never would have thought I’d have such a wealth of comrades, chums, and partners in crime as I do now.

*The Story So Far…*
The last week is a blur. Let’s go over some of the finer points as they come to mind:

The plane ride be long. Carrying a desktop computer as carry-on should be avoided. I didn’t get much sleep the night before the flight and no sleep on the day of the flight. I arrived in Sweden and then in Norway in a state of delirium.

I got off the plane.

On to a train.

And straight to my place of work.

Then they showed me my apartment and I slept for some 16 hours.

The first week at work was getting acclimated, to the building, company, and game. One of my first assignments was to download my free account to Conan and play for several hours.

I’ll have to give a photo tour of the place in a later post, but one place of note is the lounge on the top floor. The nameplate on the room says, “Yggdrasil”. In the lounge is a fridge and the fanciest coffee machine I’ve ever seen. It’s the HAL of coffee machines…in fact, I won’t be surprised when it turns and kills us all. But the coffee is delicious!

“Cappuccino…Dave?”

The top-floor lounge goes out onto the roof. This brings us to an important ritual at Funcom…

*Free Beer Friday*
On Friday nights, the lounge fridge is stocked with free beer for the employees. It’s a good time to socialize. I found myself on the roof having several interesting discussions.

A British guy talked about walking barefoot through the jungles of Mexico, tripping on acid.

A Norwegian guy, when talking about aggressive or violent countries, shrugged and said (referring to the Viking age), “We got it out of our system.”

Talk of eating intelligent marine life...
*Odds n’ Ends*
The plastic rings don’t detach from the caps on plastic Coke bottles out here…and it’s driving me mad!!!

“You Americans and cheese!” was said to me upon one person looking at my lunch tray.

If one actually looks at their food receipts, in Oslo, one risks depression.

*Oslo Zombie-Walk 2009*
When, barely recovered from jetlag, you’re asked to don some gory apparel and walk with an undead hoard through a strange city…it is wise to say yes.

Yes, I will move to Norway in a few weeks.

Yes, I will join Oslo’s second annual Zombie Walk.

Yes leads to interesting places.

It was serendipitous for this event to fall on my first Saturday in Oslo and I thought it would be a great introduction to the city center.

I was the last one from work to leave…leaving me half lost, looking for the train station, alone, with a bloody face. It was an interesting trip back.

Some zombie images (lots of cameras out there…so if someone stumbles upon any other Oslo Zombie Walk 2009 photos…let me know)…

*Phone Home (or at least Skype)*
There’s more to say, but I must away. More details to come as I record my misadventures abroad. For those who want to keep in contact with me, you can check on my blog at:

-My Blogspot Blog
-Livejournal Blog
-My Myspace Page

You can find me on Facebook.

Or my Twitter page.

Or you can reach me by Skype (my username is: nevermore_66).

Goodnight.

Send Joshua Off to Norway!

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 08:00:31 GMT

I'm off to Norway! Going to be writing for a video game company in a far off place for a year. So please, please, please come send me off in style and visit. Maybe bring a snack. Maybe bring a libation. But at the very least, bring your smiling selves. We will be up late...so visit anytime.

Start Time:	Friday, July 3, 2009 at 7:00pm
End Time:	Saturday, July 4, 2009 at 4:00am
Location:	THE DOETSCH MANOR
Street:	3911 Hale Lane
City/Town:	Island Lake, IL
	View MapQuest Map Google MapQuest Microsoft Yahoo

Phone:	224-627-6836
Email:	nevermore_66@hotmail.com

Old Baba Hubbard

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 08:13:47 GMT

[Sorry, the story, or some version of it, has been submitted to one publication or another and has been taken down. Stay tuned to hear if it has a new home.
--THE MANAGEMENT]

Getting in shape...

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Fri, 08 May 2009 19:48:37 GMT

Finally made the commitment to go on an all vegan diet. Only problem is hiding all their bones.

Birthday?

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 18:41:12 GMT

It snuck up on me.

I'd meant to plan some zany adventure...but here we are and I just realize I turn 30 tomorrow and have no birthday plans for the week.

I should rectify this.

Suggestions?

Hang...

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 20:05:01 GMT

"Don't worry, where you hang your head is home," said the hungry crow to the thief dangling from the tree.

Haiku Revised

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 01:35:39 GMT

the Night Owl devours
the Early Bird before dawn
and thus saves the Worm

Twitter...

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 07:01:18 GMT

I broke down and joined Twitter.

You can find me at JoshuaDoetsch.

Say hi.

Mwahahahahahaha!

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 10:38:17 GMT

A several weeks ticked by…just like that.

Over a month in fact.

They’ve been light laughter and heavy laughter weeks. A little life and a little death. A coin flips…but it all balances out in the end. I promise.

DEATH:

My friend, Ken’s grandmother died several weeks ago. Ken is my oldest friend that I still see on a regular basis (and having someone around that knew you in 3rd grade sometimes helps to keep certain things in perspective) and I knew his grandmother.

I could conjure up any number of memories of her, but the one that surfaces quickest, for no reason that I’m able to discern, is sitting in her living room, in the very same retirement home that my brother Nick and I had performed a magic show for the residents (where we horribly, horribly botched the Floating Mummy Trick), with Ken and her, back in high school, just as Fall was starting to deepen, the candies in the bowl on the coffee table were already taking on Halloweenish shapes, the Thriller video played in the background on a TV, and all seemed very, very right with the world…

I went to the wake and the funeral. Among other things, she was buried with a Cubs cap. Even in her final letter to her family, she still had not figured out what she had done wrong to raise so many Sox fans.

Outside it was cold and bright. The graveyard was small.

I, not having the normal schedule and responsibilities of an upstanding person my age, was in the unique position to spend the majority of three days with Ken to facilitate the grieving process. Our chosen method: nostalgic video games. Ken purchased a disc containing some 30+ old Sega games from the late 80s early 90s and we played and played.

Remember 16-Bit pixels?

Oh you kids with your advanced polygons, blackberry phones, and flying cars!

It’s amazing just how many memories are locked in sensory stimulus…even very specific beeps, squawks, menus, and digital music.

Games we played when those who are gone were still around.

We supplemented the games with alcohol, more friends, cookies, smoke breaks, laughs, and forming a new band on Guitar Hero: World Tour.

LIFE:

The next week I went to help celebrate a new life—Caitlyn Jade Glass, the daughter of my good friends, Amy and Jeramie, was getting baptized. This also gave me the opportunity to visit little Caitlyn’s older sister, my Goddaughter, Reese.

Reese was barely past infancy the last I saw of her…and now she is almost three. I had worries that she wouldn’t remember me…or what if we didn’t get along?

These doubts vanished when we shared several conspiratorial smiles throughout the mass.

I discovered Reese is very talkative. She gave me an entire symposium on here theories on the phenomenon of princessdom (“A princess just gots to!”).

In talking with Amy, I also discovered that Reese has taken to performing mischievous acts (like snatching various objects and declaring them hers) finishing off with a super-villain laugh. Not just a “ha-ha”…but a full blown, genuine super-villain-mad-scientist laugh.

“Mwahahaha!”

I’m very proud. A lot goes into a good mad scientist laugh—cackle and pitch and cadence. Technique is everything. Such a good start and so many years ahead to help Reese perfect that maniacal laughter.

I’ve half a mind to build a Doomsday Device for her third birthday.

I also, a while back, promised Reese a children's book—something I can’t solve by driving out to Barnes & Noble…as I promised to write it.

I finished my evening with Reese with a very competitive game of face-making. I’m no slouch. I summon up every ounce of humility when I say I’m freaking brilliant at making faces. But Reese kept right up with me. I’m impressed. Even overwhelmed.

What can I say? She had me at, “Mwahahahaha!”

Stagnation is the bad aftertaste of comfort

nevermore_66@hotmail.com — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 12:18:29 GMT

I lost my complacency. ‘bout freakin’ time.