NFTF: Miss Leocadia's Fortunate Juju Hoodoo Show, Part V

FORTUNA: Holy Mother of God!

Professor Zingiber: Ah, yes: I can see that I startled you. But perhaps you can assist me in rescuing Magister Py?

SFX: Moans, squishing earth, mud.

MOANING VOICES: ... brains ...

Professor Zingiber: Oh, dear. It would appear that we've awakened the guard dogs.

FORTUNA: Who are you?! Where did you come from?!

Miss Leo: Zombies? Really?

MOANING VOICES: ... moan ...

Professor Zingiber: I am Professor Hieronymus Carl Friedrich von Zingiber, and I think it in our best interest to skedaddle with alacrity.

MOANING VOICES: ... brains ... moan ...

FORTUNA: Let's go!

SFX: Two sets of retreating footsteps, running.

MUSIC: Banjo ba-ding-dang-dang!

ANNOUNCER: Meanwhile, on the other side of the house ...

YOKOHAMA: Most mysterious. This lock made entirely of noodle. What key for unlocking noodle lock?

Spandau: Oh my God ...

Miss Leo: It's better than pre-Romero zombies behaving like Romero zombies.

YOKOHAMA: Should I hit lock with rock?

Spandau: Not by much.

MOANING VOICES: ... brains ...

YOKOHAMA: Oh, hello honored undead visitors. Can you tell me what rock breaks lock?

MUSIC: Banjo ba-dang-dang-ding!

ANNOUNCER: And on the darker side ...

Miss Janelle: Did he just say that?

MOANING VOICES: ... moan ... moan ... brains ...

PEARLY WISDOM: Nah-ah, y'all betta keep back, now! Pearly got some Southern Dis-Comfort she about to throw down!

SFX: Two sets of running footsteps, approaching.

FORTUNA: Any luck, Pearly?

MOANING VOICES: ... brains ... moan ...

PEARLY: Nah, them zombified nasties come up outta the ground 'fore I could even shake a rattle. Hey -- who dat? He fine.

MOANING VOICES: ... moan ... groan ...

Miss Leo: Help the Professor!

FORTUNA: This is the Professor. I think we can help him.

PEARLY: I'd like ta help him outta that vest and those nice-fittin' pants ...

Miss Janelle: Good Lord ...

MOANING VOICES: ... moan ... groan ... brains ...

Miss Leo: Please, for the love of God, get on with it!

FORTUNA: No time for that now, they're everywhere!

PEARLY: I'm with you, honeychile: let's high-tail it for the Japster!

SFX: Three sets of running footsteps, retreating.

MUSIC: Banjo and harmonica ba-dang-ding-dang!

ANNOUNCER: Friends, let's take a moment for a nice, relaaaaaxing puff on America's Favorite: Fandango Jimijam's Healthful Tonic, the Cough-less Cigarette.

SFX: Match striking, lighting cigarette, puff-puff, inhalation, exhalation, "Aaaahhh ..."

ANNOUNCER: Yes, Fandango Jimijam's Healthful Tonic, the Cough-less Cigarette is recommended by doctors and movie stars everywhere. Even writers love it. Why, here's celebrated macabre playwright Cadwall H. Wearde!

WEARDE: Hello there!

ANNOUNCER: Mr. Wearde, can you tell us why you love smoking Fandango Jimijam's Healthful Tonic Cigarettes?

WEARDE: You know, I can't.

ANNOUNCER: You can't? What on earth do you mean?

WEARDE: That's just it, Mr. Trinculo: I have no idea why I love smoking these cigarettes so much. Even the name, Fandango Jimijam, it just gets my salivary glands working every time I hear it. Mmm. Fandango ... Fandango Jimijam ... the perfect companion at the movies or in an elevator or even sitting with the kids, right after dinner. Why, just the other day, do you know what happened?

ANNOUNCER: I certainly don't. Why don't you tell us?

WEARDE: Why, I dreamed I was smoking in my writing studio. And every puff was full of that Imported Kentucky savor, do you know what I mean?

ANNOUNCER: I certainly do.

WEARDE: And when I woke up, why, do you know where I was?

ANNOUNCER: No, I don't.

WEARDE: Well -- neither does my wife, and I'm not telling.

ANNOUNCER: [Laughing.] Oh, my! Well, that's just it, folks: Fandango Jimijam is the Cough-less Cigarette, and it's also the Cigarette for the Man's Man.

WEARDE: And that's me: bookish, tweedy --

ANNOUNCER: [Laughing, smiling] All right, Mr. Wearde. You can go now.

WEARDE: But don't you see? That's just it. I can't go. I can't go anywhere. I only exist in these commercials. I'm trapped. And these cigarettes ... they haunt me.

ANNOUNCER: Oh, come now ...

WEARDE: I'm not kidding. Every room I enter, every place I eat. There's always a sign, always a pack. It's almost ... supernatural. It's as though they are taking revenge on me. But for what? What have I done? What have I done?!

ANNOUNCER: Ehrm ... well, now --

WEARDE: I didn't mean to leave them there! I didn't mean to abandon those girls!

ANNOUNCER: Phil, can we cut him off -- ?

WEARDE: I couldn't help it, I had a deadline and their father, their father, that -- monster -- he, he had an axe. I was trying to make them safe, don't you see? I was trying to save them from their monstrous father and their mother's dark witchcraft! LOCKING THEM IN THAT ICE SHED WAS MY ONLY CHOICE! HOW WAS I TO KNOW THERE WERE BITING CLOWNSPIDERS WAITING TO LAY EGGS IN THEIR EYEBALLS?!?!

ANNOUNCER: Mr. Wearde, what on earth are you talking about?!

WEARDE: I'm talking about my new Radio Drama, The Ice Shed, premiering at this time on this station, one week from tonight!

SFX: Thundrous Applause.

ANNOUNCER: Wonderful! Wonderful. We'll see you next week, Mr. Wearde, courtesy of Fandango Jimijam's Healthful Tonic, the Cough-less Cigarette. And now, folks, let's get back to Madame Fortuna and her Harrowing Hexologists -- when last we saw them, they were being pursued by a small army of the undead outside a dilapidated old house in the Township of Zephyrtown, California, in the company of a foreign professor who isn't in our script. At all.

MUSIC: Banjo, harmonica ba-ding-ding-dang!

ANNOUNCER: To be clear, that means YOU, Professor Zingiber. Your time is almost up.

MOANING VOICES: ... brains ...

Miss Leo: This is maddening! Where is Magister Py?

FORTUNA: Who is Magister Py?

MOANING VOICES: ... moan ...

Professor Zingiber: He's the man we're here to save.

FORTUNA: Well, we're here to save Mister Maxwell, Prince Edwardian and the Lady V. So if that interferes with your plans --

PEARLY WISDOM: Don't look now, Madame Fortuna, but them dead-n-uglies is gettin' closer by the second!

MOANING VOICES: ... brains ... moan ... brains ...

Miss Leo: Professor Zingiber! Can you hear me?!

MOANING VOICES: ... moan ... groan ...

PEARLY WISDOM: Hurry up, Captain Chopsticks!

YOKOHAMA: Ah! I have it! Key for noodle lock not rock!

MOANING VOICES: ... brains ...

FORTUNA, PEARLY, Professor: What is it?!

YOKOHAMA: Chopstick!

Miss Leo: Good God, will it ever end ... ?

MOANING VOICES: ... brains ...

SFX: Doorknob rattling, chopstick in lock, CLICK, door creaking open.

FORTUNA: Good work, Yokohama! Let's go!

PEARLY WISDOM: Bout time he did somethin' right!

MOANING VOICES: ... groan ... moan ...

SFX: Many running footsteps.

SFX: Door closes.

MOANING VOICES: ... brains ...

SFX: Zombies thumping against door.

MUSIC: Banjo, harmonica sting.

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: Whisper, whisper, laughing voices all deride your weaker choices.

SFX: Twinkling, grinding, cutting.

Magister Py: [groan, labored breathing]

SFX: Running footsteps approaching.

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: What is coming, who approaches? Let them fill with hot cockroaches.

SFX: Door slamming open, breaking off hinges.

PEARLY WISDOM: Not so fast, Ol' Creeper!

SFX: Liquid splashing.

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: Aaaaaaarrrghhh! My eyes!

Professor Zingiber: Well done, Pearly!

PEARLY WISDOM: Tha's some Hoyt's Cologne, how you like it in the face, bitch?!

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: Screaming ouchers, painful vouchers! [Mysterious Voice continues muttering underneath all that follows.]

Miss Leo: Magister Py! Can you hear me?!

FORTUNA: Magister Py! Can you hear me?!

Magister Py: Miss ... Leo ... ?

Professor Zingiber: I can hear you, Miss Leo! We must be at the heart of whatever dark vortex has engulfed this town!

Miss Leo: We'll need everything you've got to get him out of there -- if only we had more help --

SFX: POOF!

Doc: Syzygium Aromaticum!

PEARLY WISDOM: Who dat?

Miss Leo: Dr. H.?!

Doc: Wha-wha-wha-what, now?

FORTUNA: Are you all ... Practicioners?

Professor Zingiber: Yes, now, stand back because --

SFX: POOF! POOF!

Madamiana: ... of the Goddess!

Edward Teacher: ... sure Dr. H. will be right back ... um ...

YOKOHAMA: By the light of my brightly-shining Ancestors ... !

[Whispering. Laughter. Static.]

Miss Leo: Madamiana? Edward Teacher? Everyone! Join Hands around Magister Py!

Professor Zingiber: Miss Leo! I cannot see the face of the Mysterious Voice who was torturing Magister Py! He stands in one corner, and all corners -- behind plants, obscured by furniture --

Miss Leo: Can anyone see him clearly?

ALL, variously: No. / Nope. / Not at all!, etc.

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: Now you've come to someone's ending, bending for to break the sum;

Miss Leo: Don't let him finish!

Professor Zingiber: We've all joined hands!

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: Multiple divisions rending, subtractors invited: come.

SFX: Floorboards shattering, breaking.

MOANING VOICE: ... brains ... brains ...

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: Magister will speak of quaking, Py will open up the way: let him now release the breaking date this state will float away!

Miss Leo: Now, Rev. Tal! Now!

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: Leocadia is shaking, none escape my darkling lure, or taking all your souls for baking I am Reinblatt the Obscu --

<< \\ transmission |::| interrupted \\ >>

[Transcriber's Note: Sound unlike any that has ever been heard through any traditional radio leaps forth: described variously as the sound of sunlight, of Angelic Redemption, of all things Good and of Happiness Unbound. All listeners via traditional radio report strange programs and impossible concerts picked up only by that radio ever after (a woman in Santa Cruz, California, swears she has heard KQED broadcast a one-night-only Beatles Reunion concert -- in 2013); listeners via Internet report the transformation of their computer's functionality; it is known that this date marks the advent of the Beneware movement, the secret and untraceable spreading of programs which destroy spam and malware wherever they go. Regardless of China's accusations, no Beneware program has ever been found, identified or traced. No government or group has ever taken credit. To this day, an unresolved matter. It is possible that in the where and when of the reader, none of this has occurred. It is also possible that a great deal more has occurred. Miss Leocadia's Fortunate Juju Hoodoo Company does not take credit for any of this, we are a curio company only. Now, back to you irregularly scheduled programming:]

<< |::| transmission \\ restored |::| >>

MUSIC: Hoobajoo Waltz

Miss Leo: Well now, it looks like we're just about out of time. And, possibly, out of trouble. Magister Py, how you doin', hon?

Magister Py: I ... am going to need some rest.

Miss Leo: Well, Spandau and myself are hopping in the car and heading over there as soon as we're off the air. Are our friends still there with you?

Magister Py: Oh, yes. Professor Zingiber, Dr. H., Edward Teacher and Madamiana are even now checking the boundaries of my property and setting some lights ...

Miss Leo: Honey, you sound wiped. Miss Janelle, let's put this baby to bed.

Miss Janelle: Thank you, Miss Leocadia. And we've come to the end of another Fortunate Juju Hoodoo Show, brought to you each week by the Fortunate Juju Trinket Company, deep in the clever redwoods of Trevarno, California -- the town that time forgot -- and online at FortunateJuju.com, and by Holy Mole Ministries, the Itinerant Chapel of Traveling Medicinal Sauces -- available at any number of mysterious crossroads you may encounter -- and on the web at HolyMole.com. I'm your host, Miss Janelle, of Compass Rose Chapel in Humboldt Wells, Nevada, and online at CompassRoseChapel.com. Listen to us live, each week, as our co-hosts, Miss Leocadia of Fortunate Juju Trinket Company, located in Trevarno, California, and Magister Pythagoras, of MagisterPythagoras.com, located in Suisun City, California, are joined by a Special Guest to help clear the bats from your belfry and the bells from your bathouse.

[Miss Leo laughs loudly at this]

Miss Janelle (cont.): And be sure to join us again next week, when our Special Guest will be ... Professor Zingiber, from RARE, Readers and Rootworkers Extraordinaire! Until then, stay healthy, get wealthy, and be stealthy! Bye!

Magister Py: Bye ... now.

Miss Leo: Good night everyone. Py, you hold tight, we're on our way.

Spandau: G'night, everyone.

<< \\ transmission |::| ended 17:01:45 \\ >>

Notes from the Future: The Dairy

My time is here and now, may all the Gods he prattles on about bless and protect Tad whenever and wherever he is.

This is my battle. Not his.

I think about saying as much to Henrietta, but then a child's voice cuts through the night, "Mama!" -- and we surge forward, a roar in our throats.

The main door of the barn stands open on the left, but I see my point of entry on the side, a door that stands ajar leaking light tinged with misery. That is where the child is calling for her mother.

I leap over the silvered rustic log fencing, land lightly in the pen it encompasses, then crouch, reaching for the door and ready to launch myself through it. As I do, screaming inside the dairy barn gets louder and I throw the door off its hinges as I spring into the space beyond, a brief image of blood and flesh and severed body parts filling my mind and then --

Cool air-conditioned, smoke-free air, soft carpet under my feet and a pleasant Febreeze-like scent. A door clicks shut behind me, I whirl and am staring at a set of double fire doors, the kind one would expect to find in any contemporary building, from corporate offices to colleges to --

"Ah, Miss Torres. Late again, I see. Would you care to join the group?"

I turn and there in the room in front of me are about twenty people sitting on folding chairs in a circle. 

-- hospitals --

Many have coffee in cardboard cups. That's the trouble, I think, but I don't know why. Everyone is wearing hospital gowns. Everyone except the man leading the group. He's short and bald and sort of gray.  They're all looking at me. I look at me. I'm wearing a hospital gown.

"What the fuck?!" I blurt.

"And, she begins," one of the group members mutters.

"Would you like to tell us why you're late?" this from the group leader. He's not wearing a hospital gown, he's wearing khakis and a denim shirt and a fuzzy fleece vest, a cheap REI knockoff. He has a nametag. Dr. something, Dr. ... I can't read the name, begins with an R ... Why am I late? Oh ... I remember ...

Someone whispers, "I was fighting beastlings, with an army from Downton Abbey," and there are whispers of laughter from the group. I can't see anyone's face move, though. What the fuck is going on?

"We don't mock our group members, remember?" he, the leader, says. I step forward and a couple of people shift so there's an open chair a few spaces to the leader's right. He's smiling and pleasant but I just can't see him. His face blurs like a migraine.

"Like a what?" he asks. I don't think I said anything aloud.

"Oh, you did," he says. "Everything you think you're thinking, you're actually saying, Veronica. It's part of your psychosis."

I stare at him, at them. There are potted plants near the four support columns in this room, in which the circle sits. There are offices beyond. I hear keyboards clicking and some conversation. 

"Veronica, please focus here. We all hear those things, as well. Remember, when last we met, you agreed to try to focus your monologuing on what you feel inside more than what you see outside. The group is very much interested in what you are feeling, what is going on inside of you. What you remember about how you got here will help everyone in their own paths to recovery," he gestures to the group, and some of them nod. I look at their faces to see if they are visible, or if they are obscured like they gray bald migraine man. Someone laughs. "Laughter is judgement," he reminds the group. "Let's reserve judgement and laughter for a time when we can all say we have put our troubles behind us."

Their faces are clear to me. I can see their eyes, I can see contempt and anger in some, pity or agreement in others. That one with the full beard, he looks like a Bearded Ezekiel I remember --

"Tell us of the Bearded Ezekiel," the group leader says and I can see his face suddenly and it's angry like shouting but then now I can't see it and I am so, so confused.

The door to an office to my right opens. There are some chairs and a couple loveseats around a low table near that office and when the door opens and the screams start I see the light of lanterns shining through the doorway and I can see that Rachel bound and exposed, barbed wire cutting into her wrists and ankles and breasts and even her cheeks where it has been used to gag her and a man with no face is reaching toward her navel with a long, thin and flexible blade, and his entire posture is gleeful and he is crying out in delight, "Twee!"

"Veronica," this from the group leader. Spoken firm, not shouted. In control.

The door slams and I turn to face him, them, the air-conditioned room that is far less upsetting than the screaming women and children, the struggling and innocent young woman whose last moments on earth I have just witnessed.

"Veronica, I need you to think only good thoughts, I need you to focus on what you remember; say what comes into your mind, we all know you can't stop yourself from doing that. We accept it. You should accept it. And as part of that acceptance, please join us in moving forward by focusing backward. Please focus on how you got here. And please will yourself to speak aloud. You have such a lovely voice, everyone thought so last week," I can hear a smile in his voice, even though I can't see his --

Twee!

-- face.

"Veronica, if you're not going to join the group and participate, we're just going to have to cut this week's session short. We're going to have to send everyone. Back. To. Their. Rooms."

Gasps from several of the people and -- oh, God, I'm saying this aloud even though I think I'm only observing things --

"Yes, good," group leader says. Did I just say, 'Group leader says,'?

"Yes, you did," he says. "It's part of why you're here. You speak the framework of a novel around every moment of your life. We're trying to help you find out why. So: Veronica?"

-- someone's eyes widen, a shake of the head -- I think --

"Veronica, I need you to focus. Everyone, stop looking at her," he says this and they all snap their eyes to him. Something in his voice. The briefest warning glance from --

"From who, Veronica? Who here would warn you? And, golly ... what on earth would they have to warn you about? ... Veronica? If you don't participate, I'll send you all back. Do we all remember that we get Strawberry Jell-O at the end of today's session? For being so good?"

I need to think.

"Think aloud, Veronica, this is better than your silence during your first three months here. Cast your mind back and think aloud. Sit. Join us. Think aloud."

I step forward and will myself to speak:

"Someone else should go first," I say.

"Well, I say that everyone else has already gone today, Veronica, and I say that we have been patiently waiting for you for a long, long time, here. So please sit down and tell us the story of how you got here. What are the three requirements, group?"

"Tell the truth," they all say. Someone laughs. I can't see who.

"No laughing, laughing is judgement," automatically from the gray group leader. "What's the second requirement?"

"Tell the truth loudly," they say.

"That's right, so everyone can hear. And requirement number three?"

"No falsehoods," they say and all snap their gaze to me. I take a step back. It's not voluntary. 

An office door beyond the group leader, behind him and to his left, opens as a woman in lavender polyester pants that do not match her very flowery blouse steps out, the door doesn't quite close and there's the little girl, her dress torn, clutching a rag doll to her and blood spurting on her as screaming mommy mommy mama please mommy mama mama no what are you doing to my 

The door shuts. I hear a gasping, ragged sob from the group and look to see who it was. I can't tell.

"Veronica! That was very upsetting for all of us!" He is standing up and yelling at me, and I can see his face through the migraine and his eyes are so angry, black with anger and rage.

But he isn't standing, he's sitting. I don't smell smoke anymore.

"You need to acknowledge that what you just said was false," he says. His tone is light. His meaning is not.

"My meaning is what I intend, not what you interpret. I am here to help you and I need you to trust me, Veronica. Now. Please, sit."

He is gesturing at the chair. I look at the group. I see -- I see --

silence silence silence think of silence silence silence

I sit down.

"Good. Everyone, let's applaud Veronica," he says. They do. Someone is still laughing at me, whispering their laughter. I look.

"Nobody is laughing but you, Veronica. You are laughing at yourself, which is unfair and judgmental. Now. Are you ready to tell us the truth of where you came from?"

silence silence silence

"I -- yes. I am," silence silence

"Why are you saying, 'silence, silence'?"

"To control myself," silence silence silence silence

"Why?"

"So I don't upset anyone else," silence silence silence silence silence

"Well, that is very considerate of you."

"Thank you, silence, I mean," silence silence. "I think I'm silence ready," silence silence silence SILENCE!

"Any time. When you're comfortable."

"Where should I silence silence begin?" silence

"What's the last thing you remember before you came in?"

"The dairy barn and the girl screaming for her mama --" silence silence SILENCE SILENCE! SILENCE!!

"That's false, Veronica. There's no dairy barn out there. Orderly Dan?"

We all turn and look and orderly Dan who is black and muscular and has a PhD -- how did I know that? -- opens the door and beyond is the hallway leading to the long-term residence rooms and I remember walking up to the door and opening it only a few minutes ago --

"Good, follow those thoughts in intentional speech, please."

"This morning for breakfast I had French Toast while a lady broke a lantern at the roots of walking trees, but I think that can't be true," silence silence silence

"Very good. Can you go back a week?"

"A week ago we were here and my Dad came to visit after and I was so clear and so, so right that, he said maybe I could leave soon and we had -- oh, my gosh, we had an actual conversation and I could remember all of the other times I just screamed that there were monsters, oh, everyone I am so sorry," I look at the group silence and there are sympathetic faces everywhere silence silence sorry silence I am trying to silence stop silence

"It's okay, Veronica. Can you go back any further?"

"Um ... there was an earthquake, and Tad said we should go to the cabin but I wanted to find our families. Does Tad know I'm better?" I am crying and I try to smile at everyone but smiling makes me silence cry more silence and I wipe my tears away and there's no mascara because we're not allowed to wear makeup here so silence silence silence at least there's that

"Veronica, we covered this last week, but I'll help you. Do you remember what we realized last week?"

the farthest office door slams open and there is that little girl and she is screaming why are you just standing there, why don't you help us please my mommy isn't moving any more please and then her hair catches on fire

"That wasn't what we realized, Veronica. Please try to focus."

long, long fingers of a black-gloved hand reach for the girl and the door slams smoke smell gone

"It was something about 'Tad'. Remember?"

"Tad ..." I sigh silence silence. "Oh Tad, silence ... silence ... Tad. Tad ... there's something important I am supposed to remember. Tad ..." silence silence silence silence

"Yes, follow that: think about Tad and last week. Who was with your Dad when he came?"

"Dad was with ... no one," silence

"That's right. Keep going."

"Dad was with no one and Tad said ... Tad ... was," silence I'm looking for silence the Bearded silence Ezekiel but I silence can't see him silence silence silence silence silence silence silence silence

"When is the last time you saw Tad here? Focus on when you saw Tad in this room or in the hallway or in the cafeteria, Veronica."

cafeteria lunch grilled cheese, mmm, silence, Dad had a silence burrito heavy on the silence cafeteria Dad cafeteria Kayleigh cafeteria -- Monica, wow -- cafeteria Taralynn -- cafeteria Mom, Yvonne, Uncle Don, Andrew, Cousin Yvette 

"Please speak intentionally, Veronica."

"I don't remember Tad in the Cafeteria, but that's because --"

"Now the hallway, please."

"Hallway: Mom, Dad, the Doctor who helps me, Kayleigh, Taralynn ... Monica ... Yvonne, Uncle Don, Andrew, Yvette, David, Grandpa Juan, Tio ..."

"Tad?"

"Not in the hallway, either," silence? Silence? Why silence not?!

whispered laughter

"You are the only one judging you, Veronica."

"Laughing stops. Oh. I said that intentionally."

"Yes. You did. Now, how about your room. Describe it, please."

"Oh, it's nice. I expected a cell."

"You say that every time."

"I do? I'm sorry."

"No need. Describe it for us, please."

"It's nice. The walls are a nice cream, there are pretty curtains with My Little Pony on them. There's a doll house. There's a desk where I write my letters."

"Do you have any pictures?"

"Um, yes: on the wall, above my desk I've taped a lot of pictures. My family. There's little Edith, pregnant now. Getting her degree with mommy hormones must be hard --"

all office doors slam open the child screams and bleeds slam shut

"Shut, shut, shut! ... I am so sorry. Should I go on?"

"Yes. Please."

"She's doing well, married to Ethan. A barber, of all things. And ... I have pictures of ... Raider, and ... Bucephulus ..."

"Who?"

"The rabbit ... Bucephulus."

"Are you sure?"

"Um ... oh. No. His name's Bugsy. Bugsy Bunny, Taralynn named him that. Little shit. She never took care of that rabbit once he grew to full-size."

"Veronica, is there anyone missing from the pictures? Close your eyes and picture the wall above your desk. Take your time."

"Let's see. Okay: Mom, Dad, Grandpa, Tio, Taralynn, Kayleigh ... Don, Norma ... Monica ... Yvonne, Andrew, Yvette ... Raider ... oh, but ... uhm ..."

"Who isn't there, Veronica?"

"Tad. Tad isn't in any of these pictures."

"How recent are they?" 

"Edith's wedding, Kayleigh's wedding ... he's not in any of those. But he was there."

"Was he?"

"I thought ... I thought he was."

"Is he in the pictures?"

"No. None of them. And these are my favorites."

"Has he ever been in your room?"

"Uhm silence silence silence, sorry it's like a hiccup, silence, sorry, uhm ... he ... urhhhhmmmm ... I'm thinking ..."

"Take your time."

"Has, he? Wow, sorry I'm crying, has he? Not come? Has he never come to visit me?"

"No, he hasn't. And I think you may know why."

"Why? Why not?"

"You know the answer to that."

"I do? What is it?"

"You need to tell us."

"How come he's not in any of the pictures? Why don't I remember him here? Where is Max, where the hell is Max?!"

"No pictures of Tad. You've never mentioned Max before today. Victoria. Tell us. You know. Say it aloud. Say the thing you're thinking, and you will feel so much better."

"I only remember him in terms of the ... false silence memories silence silence silence that I know ..."

"That you know?"

"Aren't real."

"And?"

"Oh my God. Tad."

"Mm-hmm?"

"Tad doesn't exist."

"Are you sure?"

"I ... am. I'm sure. I ... made the whole thing up. Wow. I made it all up. The earthquake, the Prophet, everything ..."

"That's right, Victoria. Orderly Dan, can you get her some Kleenex?"

"Oh my God. I'm -- I'm sorry, everyone. I -- just ... I didn't know."

"Victoria has made some real progress today, everyone, let's give her some applause and a group hug. Yes. There we go. Wow. I think we've all made a lot of progress today, folks. And, hey --"

A door has opened and someone new is here now.

"Look who's here, look who's brought us all some yummy Strawberry Jell-O? Victoria, it's your favorite doctor. Hey, Doc, your Number One Patient made a lot of progress today."

silence silence silence

"Victoria," new voice says but is it new. "Strawberry is your favorite, yes?"

"Victoria, Dr. Mayberry is speaking to you.

"Victoria, how do you feel?" new voice not so new

"I ... feel better. Thank you," silence.

silence silence silence

"Victoria," new voice. "I'm very proud of you. It's okay that you don't want to look at me. I trust Dr. Reinblatt, and I'm thrilled that you've joined the group again."

"Thank you, Dr. Mayberry."

"My pleasure, Dr. Reinblatt. Victoria? Come with us, and we'll get you all fixed up for tonight's presentation. Ah, there's a smile. Just as the Lord foretold. So saith the Doctor."

whispers 

so saith the lord

wet slicing

laughter muffled screams

NFTF: Diabilo Misses The Point On Time Traveler Stories

Board | Howl Out

Posted by Michael Archangeli (contributor), June 23, 2005 at 11:25 pm

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As anyone who reads local news of late has no doubt noticed, David Diabilo has covered at least two recent stories about a "time traveler" (he capitalizes the phrase, I don't know why) identified twice by Betty Washington of Danville. I have two problems with this trend. First: how is it that Betty Washington of Danville was present for the events central to the first story, and has photographic evidence of the peripheralized events central to the second story? It is clear to me, at least, that Betty Washington figures far more prominently in these stories than Diabilo is willing to acknowledge -- or, perhaps, admit.

When I say that the events of the second story are peripheralized, what I mean is that the real center of that story is not Betty Washington's desire to eradicate all non-indigenous species from the 925 (and possibly all of California, though this begs the question: is Washington herself truly "indigenous"?); the real center of that story, the nugget if you will, is that the "time traveler" was spotted for a second time. Perhaps Diabilo had to get it past his editors somehow, or perhaps he is trying to protect Betty Washington or obscure her direct connection to this "time traveler."

My second problem with this trend is simple: while I do not mean to imply any diabolical intent on Diabilo's part (hmmm ... ), I think that in the interest of journalistic integrity, Diabilo should come out with the truth. If his editors can't handle it, maybe he should consider working for editors with the cojones to publish stories that don't always have a satisfying ending. Frankly, mystery will raise readership. I confess to a degree of obsession on this subject, and so I throw down my gauntlet:

David Diabilo, do you have the courage to share what you really know, or to join me in search of more information on this "time traveler"?

Contact Michael Archangeli via comments below.

DogPatch :: Find your DogPatch :: Start a blog :: Dig a DogPatch Near You!

NFTF: Star Anise Crop Linked To Mysterious Interloper

By David Diabilo Contra Costa Times

June 22, 2005

Danville, California -- Locals have spotted a mysterious intruder lurking near the base of the Danville Oak Tree of late, and despite repeated attempts at removal, this unwanted visitor appears to be flourishing. The name of the visitor is Star Anise, and while to some it may not matter what plants grow where, the Town of Danville's Indigenous Species Alliance (DISA) considers it a potentially grave matter.

"We love Danville, and we love the indigenous species that flourish here," said Betty Washington, founder and leader of the group. "We find it very upsetting that these non-indigenous species are secretly planted without any concern for local flora and fauna, but even more disturbing is the fact that nobody on the Town Council seems to care about why the plants are there or where they came from." Washington delivered these remarks as she led a group of similarly passionate retirees in the removal of about an acre of ice plant from an embankment on San Ramon Valley Road.

When asked about the mysterious presence of Star Anise growing at the base of the Danville Oak Tree, Jed Johnson, Maintenance Services Director for the Town of Danville, said that the Town is working tirelessly to help control the advance of non-indigenous species, and that, " ... we truly appreciate the fervor and generosity of people like Mrs. Washington. It's a big help when educated volunteers coordinate with us to help keep Danville beautiful."

"That still doesn't address the problem of the source of these plants," said Washington after reading an approved transcript of Johnson's interview. "I've been to multiple Council Meetings, I've asked all the local gardeners -- I even infiltrated a group of supposed 'eco-terrorists'!" Asked what she learned in that group, Washington said, "I'm pleased to report that they are as ecologically-minded as I am; these kids were arrested for making and scattering seed balls out of red clay powder. The seeds? Indigenous oak acorns, California poppies and other California wildflowers that flourish in this region. If that's terrorism, call me Bin-Laden, because I've been throwing seeds into vacant lots since I was a child. Arrest me quick, because I won't stop."

Asked if she has any theories about how the plants arrived, Washington was enthusiastic: "Well, it's him, of course. It's the Time Traveler we saw at the old Dairy." 

Readers may remember the incident reported May 21, wherein a homeless man disappeared from the back of a local police vehicle en route to the Santa Rita jail. According to Washington, the planter of the Star Anise and the disappearing Time Traveler are one and the same: "I didn't see him myself, but Myrtle Talbeck and Louise Bettencourt were out for an early-morning walk and they saw him. It was the same man, same clothes, everything. He was dancing around the tree. Gesturing and dropping rocks, they said. But the thing was, he was going in a specific direction. Clockwise." Asked about the significance of this direction, Washington confided that it's "specific" to " ... Pagans, with a capital 'P'." 

Washington even has a photo, taken with Myrtle Talbeck's iPhone. It's a grainy, blurred image of someone near the base of the Danville Oak. Washington says she showed it to all of her friends who witnessed the events with the self-proclaimed Time Traveler in late May. "They all recognized him. They didn't even need to be asked who it was, they just looked at it and said, 'Oh, it's the Time Traveler.' And before you ask, I'll tell you: I asked the Town Council if they had the seeds planted there because, you know, what if he works for Jed Johnson? Some kind of re-integration for PTSD Iraq War Vets. No such program exists in Danville. And my question is, Time Traveler aside, why not?"

As of publication, neither the Town Council nor Jed Johnson had any comment.

Down With Dogs: An Interjection

It's 2:20am on the first day of Summer as I write this. The weather here in Northern California has, of late, been perfect: bright and sunny, not too hot, perfect weather for hiking and outdoorsy stuff like gardening, walking, barbecuing, enjoying. In the past four days, I have left this property precisely twice. Once was to go to the store with Veronica, I think, and the second time was to go to the Alameda County Fair this past afternoon in order to see Kix Brooks, formerly of Brooks & Dunn (this was my first exposure to the work of Mr. Brooks and I have to say, he kicked ass). Entertaining as this evening past was, however, it is not the reason I'm awake at two in the morning.

There are many, many reasons why I am awake at two in the morning, but they all seem to culminate in one very simple statement: I am at a crossroads. Simply put, I am not entirely certain that I am an actor anymore. There are many, many reasons why I feel this way at the moment, but chief among them are a couple of sad facts: 

1) I have turned down every role I've been offered in the past six months. 

2) I am not the right kind of Feminist.

The second of these facts is centered in an event that occurred on Facebook in the second or third week of the run of a production of The Three Musketeers which I directed for Solano College Theatre: I posted a link to Tony Wade's very positive review, but I lead with the phrase, "Boobs and Swords!" This was followed by an offer of free tix in exchange for an haiku about Swashbuckling. Apparently, my use of that incendiary phrase is upsetting and offensive to a majority of people in the Bay Area Theatre Folks group. Some were offended because they interpreted it to mean that I only value the actresses in that production for their breasts. Others were offended because, as powerful Adjunct Faculty (ha ha, I must laugh at that and, yes, bitterly), I must surely have been using my power negatively against my students and brazenly trumpeting it on Facebook. Others were offended because, clearly, I was supporting Rape Culture by using that phrase. All of this offence and upset was of course shrouded tightly in a cruelty-free, fair-trade hempen shawl of Liberal Concern.

What it felt like at the time was a blistering attack upon my person, my work and my character. Logical or not, that is what it felt like. No degree of humor was acceptable in my response -- my first tactic was to remind the ladies that men have boobs as well, and, as one of my actors (Matt King) has a rather impressive pair, we shouldn't be sexist. This was an unsuccessful tactic. I was angrily lectured on how men don't want to be valued solely for their breasts, either.

My next tactic was to apologize via my Facebook page. In this apology, I took the opportunity to point out that it was, after all, a production of The Three Musketeers: boobs and swords are part of that world. This, I have learned, was Not Okay. An angry person apparently posted a link to my page in a thread elsewhere, and in the no doubt civilized discussion that followed, I have been told that people were ripping me to shreds in a series of very, very personal attacks. I haven't read any of this, I have only been told. I have since asked what, precisely, was being said. I have received no answer. As my inquiry was made in the form of a direct text message to the individual who told me about the character assassination, I have to assume that some sort of telephonic interference has occurred, and I should re-inquire. I will do so, but something tells me that there will be a lot of telephonic interference.

One or two people offered counter-arguments within the comments which followed my various posts, but they were generally shouted down. This was referred to, near the end of the comments, as a bracing and informative discussion or somesuch. I also received two messages of support -- one from someone I know, and another from someone I've never met. They were deeply, deeply appreciated.

It was around this time that a friend who had been intervening on my behalf sent a message to someone whom I gather was one of the drivers of this attack, perhaps explaining that I am not such a bad guy and so forth. I don't know precisely what it said, I haven't seen the message. He then shared her response with me in a message he addressed to both of us. In her response she listed several things she wanted me to do in order to make amends. The first was offer an apology free of humor. The next three things involved showing a movie to my students and hosting a discussion afterwards, as well as something else which I do not recall as of this writing. She also offered to discuss this whole thing with me via e-mail or in person, an offer I have yet to take up for a variety of reasons to be detailed further on. I did, however, apologize immediately via both the Bay Area Theatre Folks group and my Facebook page. My apology was utterly devoid of humor and of course sparked another entire argument between the various factions, everyone making their points in polite or not-so-polite fashions. I recused myself from the discussion due to lack of impartiality -- I was still smarting from the smackdown.

I also received a message from one of the other attackers, in which she offered to explain to me what they all found so upsetting so that I would no longer be, "mystified." She also told me that "this sort of thing" would be happening a lot more from now on. I wondered if she meant character-assassinate-first-and-ask-questions-later, but I didn't dare ask for fear of igniting yet another firestorm. Because, after all, how dare I?

Here's why it was all so upsetting: I had been pushing a boulder up a mountain with this production since November of 2012, working entirely on The Three Musketeers straight through to opening night. Those few of you who regularly read my blog no doubt noticed the lengthy silence during that time. The few times I wrote anything for Notes From The Future, I felt I was cheating The Three Musketeers. The production had been beset with problems, not least of which were major budget cuts and staff reductions which left us with no production management, no publicity department and no everything else we'd always had in the past. The list feels vast at this time, the idea of detailing it is exhausting. Let it suffice that I've given you the image of me pushing a boulder up a mountain, and let's make that mountain the North Face of Half Dome. Then somehow, amazingly, the production worked. It was glorious. It was exceptionally well-received. Audiences were delighted, though very small in number. If the fucking air conditioning could have worked on a regular basis, it would have been a pleasant experience to watch the show.

So there I was, delighted with the production and wanting to offer free tickets to a bunch of my Theatre tribe so that we could paper the house and my actors could have an audience of more than five people for their upcoming performances. I admit, I wondered about trumpeting Boobs and Swords in a group that doesn't know me from Pol Pot, but my thought was that some fundamentalist Christian prudes would be the only ones to object. 'Surely, Theatre people are all fans of boobs and will glory in this production,' thought I.

Alas. No.

I have enough trouble sleeping to begin with. The Tech process for this show was made unnecessarily negative, and that had added to my lack of sleep. Then the sound designer never ever came in or called, and I ended up designing most of the sound myself, with help from the actor playing Porthos and the student in the tech class who was originally assigned to simply run the sound for the show. What this meant was that the soundscape for the show was not complete opening night. Frankly, it was never quite right: though he swore up and down that all of the cues were set in stone and he wasn't live-mixing, I was present for almost every performance. They were never precisely the same, and I mean duration and timing and volume. Sometimes cues didn't even happen. 

So, with sleep evading me at every turn, I had a couple of choices: Valerian root and / or Melatonin or marijuana and / or alcohol. Or any unsafe combo of the above. I find that taking a lot of Valerian and Melatonin over a long period of time can make me gloomy, so I didn't want to rely solely upon those options. Alcohol hurts my tummy. Weed was the strongest and best and easiest option, and it worked every time. I guess I'm a criminal, now, as well as not the right kind of Feminist.

Now, ordinarily, once the show was over I would have been able to go back to just falling asleep at night. But here's the thing: I haven't been able to get this whole Boobs and Swords thing out of my head. I have written easily a hundred pages of my thoughts on the subject, waking from sleep night after night with a thought I had to write down. Even after writing for an hour or two, I couldn't get back to sleep. It was exhausting. I have been consistently smoking pot every night for over a month now, just to get to sleep. I made the mistake of not taking any weed with me to my parents' cabin while I was up there alone refinishing cabinets in late May / early June, and it was the same then: start to fall asleep, then jolt awake with a painful thought. 

Not wanting to use marijuana as a crutch, I thought I would go without it tonight. I prefer clear lungs and a clear head. I prefer sobriety. 

It's now 4:05 am. I'm exhausted. But I know that within minutes of my head hitting the pillow, I will zap back awake with the phrase "rape culture" or something similarly horrid emblazoned across my mindscape.

And here's the thing: nothing I can say, no argument I can offer or discussion I can have, will allay the anger of my angry tribe members. It doesn't matter that I did not intend one iota of their negative personal interpretations: the fact is, they were offended and I had to be taken to task. Because how dare I say something so offensive? How dare I advertise a college production with the phrase, "Boobs and Swords"? How dare I, how dare I, how dare I?

It doesn't matter that I can't stop thinking about it. Nor does it matter that I have absolutely no plans to audition for anything at all, for fear of whatever negative backlash awaits when people hear the memorable name of Edward Hightower (this is related to the reasons why I haven't taken anyone up on the offer to discuss what they feel is justified unkindness: the idea hurts; why would I sit down with my attackers, or people who stood idly by as my character was assassinated, so that they can justify their actions?). Nor does it matter that I can't seem to get anything done at all, anywhere. 

Compounding all of this is a health problem of which I will spare you the details, but which has so obstructed my life as to make the idea of being onstage deeply alarming, and which forms the basis for statement number one at the beginning of this episode of embarrassing self pity.

Further embarrassment: I foolishly applied for the Full-Time Acting/Directing Theatre Faculty position at Solano College, in spite of frequent warnings from George Maguire that I would not get the job. I soooooo wish I had listened to him more than I did. By the time the interview came around, I was not entirely certain that I wanted to do the interview, because it was pretty clear from what George was saying that they were not looking for Edward Hightower to fill the position. I was torn between giving a good interview and intentionally throwing it so that I would not get the job. Because what the fuck is the point of even applying if they knew already that they didn't want me? Further assurances from George Maguire include the fact that the new full-time person will take all the classes from the adjuncts in order to get the hours required to fill her/his paycheck. So: I'm pretty much not teaching at Solano anymore. Even if I am offered the Theatre 001 class, which is beginning acting and which I taught last Fall, it's a long, long drive and ultimately more expensive than it's worth. 

I am certain that all of the Correct Feminists would smile in grim satisfaction that I am no longer evilly wielding my Gigantic Professorial Power over my meek little powerless students, and so there you go, Correctinitas y Correctinitos: I'm thoroughly fucked, and you may have helped prevent me from getting that job. I'm sorry that I can't say that you definitely helped. The fact is, I do not know for certain. I apologize for this, as well.

All of which leads to these questions:

If I am not an actor, what am I?

If I am not a teacher, what am I?

And what the hell is the point of doing theatre in the SF Bay Area anyway? The vast majority of theatre here is absolutely terrible, poorly done and an embarrassment to watch. When artists do not survive solely by their art, they become complacent and it shows in their work -- with one or two rare exceptions. How many actors do you know who truly survive solely by working creatively -- without stretching the meaning of that word -- in their field?

There you have it: this is the crossroads at which I find myself, night after night. No matter which path I choose, it doubles back to this spot. A mental and emotional Moebius Strip. 

All because I wanted my actors to have an audience.

In a final note: of all the correct persons so outraged by Boobs and Swords, and so concerned for my students' well being, not one came to see the show. That, I feel, bears repeating: none of them came to see the show. To be clear: none of them actually supported the students about whom they were so deeply concerned. 

Interpret that as you see fit; following their example, it doesn't matter what their intention was -- only your interpretation of their intention matters. 

Particularly if it is as negative as possible.