Category Archives: Paffooney

The Curse of Being Creative

“Oh, I just hate you, you can draw so well!  I always wished I could draw like that.”

Yes, the perfect thing to hear when you are a twelve year old boy in the sixth grade, and you are hearing it from the girl in your class whom you most want to have a chance to see naked when you grow up.  Being smart, creative, and according to Alicia when we were twelve, “You’re so funny,” is not really as fun and wonderful as you might imagine.  There’s a downside to being highly creative.

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First of all, there’s that.  Yes, the naked part of the illustration above.  An artist, especially one who also writes and knows how to write from the heart, makes himself or herself naked all the time.  The secret parts on the inside come out constantly.  You can’t have a private, embarrassing, or secret thought without it being obviously discernible somewhere in the artworks you create.  Even the perverted ones like the one about wanting to see Alicia naked when I was twelve.  If nakedness is one of things that is on your creative little mind even though it is the one thing that you wish really wasn’t there at all, guess which of the many things on your creative little mind is going to come out first.   Artists walk around naked in front of the world all the time, no matter how many clothes they put on.

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Secondly, you don’t seem to be able to think like normal people do.  Normal people are not divergent thinkers.  They are not constantly trying to stand on their head before looking at the world, connecting bizarre things together and seeing the world in constantly shifting and highly exotic colors.  I imagine normal people probably walk around all the time with Elton John tunes playing in their head, thinking only about what they ate for lunch and then posted pictures of on Facebook.  The lights are not always on in their attic, and they certainly don’t have ghost dogs and booger-men named Douglas playing noisy games of full contact tackle Parcheesi in there during the middle of the night.  They don’t have wake-up-sweating nightmares about being attacked by ducks with gigantic white dentures.

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There are no Clowntown Kops throwing pies at them in their daydreams about rescuing naked Alicias from sinister bald villains with trained seals for evil minions.  Their minds go round and round on a single railroad track on an ordinary oval path.  Unlike my mind that is a multi-tracked switch yard where you have to approach going at least ninety miles and hour, losing a single car at every switch, nearly careening sideways off the track at least three times, and having to come together as a train on the other side, collecting all the cars again at high speed and chugging down the tracks to destinations unknown.

And it is all too easy to see the future when you are both creative and at least mildly perceptive.  I knew the Cubs were going to win the World Series.  I knew Trump would become our leader.  I still pray that I am wrong about the whole world-ending thing.

Being creative is not easy.  Sometimes it hurts more than it makes you laugh.  It leaves you naked and vulnerable.  It makes you think in abnormal ways that are studied by abnormal psychiatrists.  And it makes you see and understand things that you really wish you were still ignorant of.  But would I trade it for anything else?  Hmm… let me think about that one for a few more years.20161112_205317

 

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Still Collecting Sunrises

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I am not by nature an early riser.  I have been far more of a night owl than a morning lark in my sixty years on this planet.  And yet, as a school teacher and father and dog owner (which also means dog-walker and dog-poop-picker-upper), I have been forced to become an early riser.  But I like to look at sunrises.  We are never guaranteed waking up alive in the morning.  One day soon I anticipate waking up quite dead.  But in the meantime, I am still looking at sunrises and collecting them.  Proof that I still ain’t dead.

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And I am trying hard this winter to think and write about other things than Donald Trump.  As bad as he is to have to deal with, life goes on… at least, until it doesn’t.  And each day I am older and wiser than I was the day before… at least by a day’s worth, if not more.  Good things still happen even if they don’t happen as often as they used to… or as much as the bad things still happen.

I am watching more than one kind of sunrise.  This statue was molded and fired in a kiln at school by my daughter, a rising sunshine of art talent.  In fact, all my kids can draw… I wonder where that comes from?

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My daughter sometimes draws weird cartoon characters like this boy with a band-aid on his nose riding on a dinosaur/dragon/thing with a laser eye and a mechanical right leg.  That is about as goofy as it gets.  And I wonder, too, where the heck does that come from?

And you can stop shouting at the computer screen.  I only pretend to be as thick as rock for comedic effect.  In truth, only my head and my really old unwashed socks are that hard and dense and thought-resistant.

But I keep going while I can.  There is still lots to do… novels to write… pictures to draw… dogs to walk and poop to pick up… being retired, even being forcibly retired for health reasons, is like a bag of Saturdays, with no real work responsibilities hanging over my head except for the ones I put there for myself.

And I keep on collecting sunrises, one after another… simply because I still can.

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The View From My Little Town

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An aerial view of Toonerville in Winter 

As immigration officers round up school children and their families blocks from a school in North Carolina, Trump minion Flynn is being accused of violating the Logan Act over discussions with the Russians before Trump took office, and DeVos is being chased away from a Washington middle school by angry protesters who don’t want her sucking the intelligence out the students, I am reminded there are quieter places to go and get away from all the insane noise that is trying to kill us.  Thus I head back to Toonerville, my HO scale model train town that has been packed away since we moved to Dallas in 2004.  I have laid the downtown and part of the residential area out on a snowfield on the spare bed in my bedroom.

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I am reminded, as I revisit Toonerville (with the Toonerville Trolley waiting down front from the train station), that I am a humor writer that writes about small town experiences and the teaching of children.  I am imaginative and creative, and I have working strategies for dealing with the stress and insanity caused by all the political baboons doing the politically-charged things that political baboons do baboonishly every baboon day.  There are places to go to get away from the Trump Circus’s endless monkey-house of horror.

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In Toonerville, none of the clocks keep the correct time and none of them agree what time it is.  Certain things are timeless.  The village works together to solve its problems.  What the wits and twits who chew Red Man tobacco down at Al’s General Store think about politics never leaves the checkerboards in front of the fire place.  Mayor Moosewinkle at City Hall has no plans to run for State or Federal office.  (Thank God for that, he’s a nut.)  And officer Billy Bob Wortle, formerly from Texas, has never shot anybody of any color.  The County Sheriff doesn’t even trust him to own bullets for that big old gun of his.  As far as executive orders from Washington go, we mostly don’t give a damn.

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Down at the Post Office, Mr. Murdoch the postman has never “gone postal” and wouldn’t hurt a fly.  He loves to gossip, though.  And Mr. Santucci, the hot-headed Italian owner-operator of the Farmer’s Market (who looks just like Santa Claus in the Coke ads, but is one very foul-mouthed Santa at Christmas time) secretly believes that it is the many differences between the various residents of town that keep life interesting.  And old Ben Johnson, the town’s only black man, is his very best friend.

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It’s a truly good feeling to live in a small town where all the people bicker and throw fits, but no one would every want to throw anyone out of town.  People belong together, working for the common good.  And it is a rather sad thing if the only place such a town can exist is inside my goofy old head.  But if we bicker a little less and throw fits less often on the inside, won’t we be better people on the outside too?

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Whoo I Are?

One way to define myself is through the pictures I draw.  So today… less words… more draw.

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I am certainly not the greatest artist who ever lived.  But when you draw a lot… and do it for 60 years… man, you have a lot of drawings stuffed away in drawers and closets!

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The 1957 Pink and White Mercury of Imagination

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Yes, she was a real car.  My dad bought her in the 60’s as a used car.  But she was a hardtop, not a convertible.  She was the car he drove to work every day in Belmond.  We called it the “Pink and White Pumpkin”, my sisters and I, referring to the pumpkin in Cinderella which the fairy godmother changes into a coach.  But it would only later become the car of my dreams.

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You see, she was killed in the Belmond Tornado of 1966.  Her windows were all broken out and her frame was twisted.  So the pictures of her, though they look exactly like my memories of her, minus the rust spots, are not actual pictures of the car in question.  Our next door neighbor, Stan the Truck Man, was a mechanic always on the lookout for salvage parts.  He took her apart piece by piece while she sat in our driveway.  We continued to sit in her and play in her until all that was left was the bare frame.  My friend Werner told me for the first time about the facts of life and where babies really came from in the back seat while she was being gradually dismantled.  Of course, I was nine at the time and didn’t really believe him.  How could that grossness actually be true?

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But she still lives, that old dream car…  She is the reason that I objectify my imagination as a ship with pink sails.  My daydreams, my creative fantasies, and those long, lingering plays in the theater of my imagination as I am drifting off to sleep all start in the three-masted sailing ship with pink sails.  And that dream image was born from the Pink and White Pumpkin.  I have sailed in her to many an exotic place… even other planets.  And when I die, she will take me home again.

 

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You Are Just Filling Space, Lazy Writer

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The Mickey gets tired of Donald Trump-Duck quacking on Twitter and knacking his flitter like so many ditter and bitter pitter witter.

Yeah, I know.  Mickey could be using spell check better.  But sometimes you just have to let the pink-and-white four-door 1957 Mercury Monterey of your imagination wander where it will, even if it takes you to the land of misspelled words.

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Destroyed by the tornado in 1966, it still chugs around inside my head.

So let me tell you a misspelled story;

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Pompolina Cookiespitter was spooplemad for blaying dinkleball with the doofenburgers.  She doorsized dinkleball ten times more fopserisciously than any doofenburger ever minxyblootered.  And if you minxyblooter too snerkly you will dopserizingly biffle dorpsnitz.  So no doofenburger ever really snorkled dinkleball with Pompolina.  It shlayed her so fopserisciously that she almost blootenbursted.  Doofenburgers everywhere schneed from horpspittoon.

Now, that story makes no sense at all.  Yet, I am confident you can tell me, how does Pompolina feel about blaying dinkleball?  And how do doofenburgers feel about it?  And is it safe to minxyblooter too snerkly?  What is the possible outcome of that?

If you can answer those questions about my story, then you have some idea about how American politics feels after Donald Trump-Duck blootenbursted everywhere his first two weeks in office.  So there.

 

 

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Facebooking and Birdwalking

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This is my bird-walking illustration.  I know that it is totally the wrong picture for the job, but it is a bird walking, isn’t it.  

It is not a stretch to suggest that most of what you find on Facebook is not real.  Especially when it comes to the endless posting and sharing of topical political memes.  I had thought when Facebook came out with their reaction-emoji thingies, that there was at least one I would never find a use for.  15622475_1183729518385094_5552623989556758950_n

Boy!  Was I ever wrong about that.  Now that the gold-plated pumpkinhead that got himself elected somehow is busy with his markers and crayons making executive orders, it is about the only one that really fits anywhere.

We made a big mistake allowing Trump to play Prexy and be the one in charge of making the rules of the game.  You all knew he was gonna cheat before the game even started, didn’t you?  And it won’t last long.  He is making allies like Australia into offended enemies.  He is banning burn victims, heroic Iraqi translators, doctors, and researchers from coming into the country with their entry visas and green cards and other proof that they have a right to be here.  He is burning up any goodwill and patience and level-headedness  that we have tried to afford him.  He will be impeached, or worse, sooner rather than later.  And then we will have to live with the irreparable damage he has done. 15871838_1523005324380940_7699241610958871006_n

And we probably deserve it.  We have made mistakes before, and if we live long enough, we will make more in the future.  But this was a big one.  And I don’t have to feel happy about it.  No matter what my conservative friends on Facebook tell me… or what names they call me.

So that’s where the bird-walking comes in.  The mind has to wander away down paths of lesser resistance.  We need to go where the sandpiper would go, walking down the beach to look for new and interesting-looking seeds to eat.

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You really should add this to your Bob Ross Bible if you haven’t already.

All of my illustrations in this article, except for the walking bird, which I drew myself, are clipped directly from Facebook.    Facebook is sometimes the soul source of wisdom for Village Idiots, and I should probably make an effort to be one less of the time.  But it is also an excellent source of bird-walking topics that get my mind off the terrible things and onto free-floating tangents that take me to places my mind would really rather be.

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I would’ve liked to have attended Pillsbury’s funeral, but the meme only gave the time and length of the service, not the date.  I fear that by now I have missed it.  But I am sure the service was well done.15747477_1364363353622793_9185361677508015682_n

Nostalgia memes on Facebook are great.  They make me feel all squishy and sad again about the times long gone and how terrifyingly horrible they were compared to how terrible they are now.

Remember John Wayne Gacy?  Or reports on television about the Viet Nam War?  With pictures?  Full color pictures of the My Lai Massacre in living color on NBC, with all the blood in bright red.  Yeah, that stuff on TV kept us outdoors quite a lot.

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But Facebook bird-walking is a dangerous sport.  If you let it, it will eat up your whole life, minute by minute, hour by hour.  And I’m not sure it makes you smarter in any way.  I know some pretty stupid people who are on Facebook quite a lot.

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Bird-walking at its best, though, is to coddiwomple.  And though you don’t know where you are going, you will get there sooner or later, so you might as well look at the scenery and appreciate the irony along the way.  Life should be a leisurely stroll, not a rush to get away from gold-plated pumpinheads with executive orders in their tiny, tiny hands.

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Doo-Doodly-Noodly-Day

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This is a doodle even though it may look like finished art.  I began doodling with a pencil and she wasn’t a starship captain until I began inking it.

Yes, now and again I have to doodle.  You pick up the drawing tool and a blank piece of paper, and you let your mind go anywhere and everywhere that it wants to go.  Why did I choose to doodle a girl?  Sounds kinda creepy and bad, doesn’t it?  But I like science fiction and adventure and young people… I’m turning myself into a young adult author, after all.  And I like girls… even though I am 60 and my prostate is enlarged and rather dead.  I’m still a guy and I ain’t completely dead.  So maybe it isn’t really so creepy.  I am trying to keep my mind off of you-know-who… he-who-shall-not-be-named.  Yeah, this guy.

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This is truly a doodle.  I drew it in pen in about ten minutes time.  And it sucks (in the sense of a vacuum cleaner) because the overlong tie looks like a stream of blood and I think I drew the hands too big to look realistic. 

Random and open to the bizarre, allowing for accidents to appear on the page (both the Bob Ross happy kind and the not-so-happy kind), able to follow the wandering mind as fast as the hand can capture the flow of images and ideas in the silly old noodle.  That is not only what a doodle is, it is what this essay is.  A doodle essay.

I can do that without making a total poo-poo mess because I have practiced so much with pencil and pen and ink and paper that the lines flow naturally from my fingers.  And I can rely on my constant habit of writing stupid thoughts down to create a semi-coherent essay out of random jumbled thoughts.  Instinct born of practice guides my mind and hand.

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Here’s a random picture of the wall by my bed where I am writing this.  Perhaps it could be called a camera doodle?

Doodling helps me avoid the things needing to be avoided.  The world is ending.  Betsy DeVos is likely to be the Secretary of Education.  A trade war with Mexico will bring an end to much of the fruits and vegetables we can afford to eat.  I am big on avoiding.  You can tell that in my camera doodle.  Christmas lights Mickey hasn’t taken down yet?  Yeah, I’m thinking about leaving them up permanently.  You know, just until the world finishes ending.  My family, as Jehovah’s Witnesses, don’t celebrate Christmas anyway.  So what can it hurt if I keep my one dollar string of colored lights up for another few weeks.  Just until the Russian nukes start raining down on Dallas Fort Worth thanks to the red tie guy.

So there is nothing important at all in today’s blog.  Just doodles everywhere.  But why, then, does it make me feel so much better?  Well, I would say, “Because doodling makes it better.”

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Stardusters… Canto 32

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Canto Thirty-Two – In the Main Flower Garden of the Bio-Dome

There were three large red-and-yellow blossoms on robust stalks in the center of the garden.  Everything else was either withering and brown or completely dead.  George Jetson felt slightly creeped out by the three giant, healthy plants in the center of so much death and rot.  Still, he didn’t object as Brekka and Menolly danced and sang as they moved towards the bright colors of the three blossoms.

“Georgie?  Why aren’t you dancing with us?” sang Brekka.

“Yeah, why not?” added Menolly.

“I don’t need to dance with goofy girls right now.  I… I’m supposed to guard you and keep bad things from happening.”

The girl tadpoles scoffed and continued to dance towards the blossoms.

George watched the leaves of the flowers, easily the size of dinner plates, begin to twitch and move.  It was almost as if they were trying to detect something either by feel, maybe of vibrations in the air, or possibly by smell.  George knew from his educational programming that leaves had openings called “stoma” that sniffed the air as they breathed carbon dioxide in and oxygen out.  It wasn’t an important fact, was it?

Suddenly there was a large, burly lizard man bursting in through the far door into the flower garden.  He was completely naked, for reasons unknown.  He was also obviously a scabby with the tell-tale white, filmy eyes and desiccated patches on his naked scales.

“George!  Help!” cried Brekka.  She had danced so far towards the three live flowers that the interrupting scabby had her cut off from Menolly and George.  George leaped forward to engage the monster in hand-to-hand combat, but pulled up short when he noticed the huge teeth and long, scimitar-like claws on both hands.

“Brekka!  Run away!  We will catch up to you on the other side!” screamed George.  “Menolly!  Come here to me!”

Brekka broke toward the flowers and ran.  The scabby followed her.  Menolly reached George and threw both of her green arms around his neck, making him unable to either flee or fight.  Both of them watched the pursuit of Brekka with absolute horror.

The largest of the three blossoms moved its huge flower-face closer to the fleeing Brekka.  The four main petals of the blossom formed into two sets of opposing jaws.  As Brekka moved close enough, the blossom engulfed her entire body and lifted her into the air.  Her screams were muffled by the blossom that seemed much more like a gigantic mouth.

“Oh!  No!  Brekka is gone!” cried Menolly, sagging against George Jetson.

“It ate her!”  George was too stunned to move.

The flowers were still in motion.  The two remaining blossoms grabbed the scabby, one seizing its head, and the other grabbing a leg.  The two blossoms pulled in opposite directions, splitting the unfortunate lizard man in two, then settling down to munch contentedly and smack their petal-lips.

Menolly was devastated and sobbing uncontrollably.  George didn’t know an awful lot about the hugging and kissing stuff that Earth humans did on their television shows, but he felt the urge to try.  He held Menolly tightly with both arms and pressed his mouth to hers.

“Mmmph!  What are you doing?” Menolly moaned.

“I’m comforting you, dummy.”

“Well, don’t stop!”

When the blossom that had engulfed Brekka began making retching noises, George was almost too lost in the entire kissing thing to respond.  He felt rather funny in his lower stomach as the two tadpoles pulled apart.

The blossom vomited Brekka onto the walkway.  She was clearly still alive, but covered with sticky-looking goo.

“Ooh,” moaned Brekka, “that was not very fun.”

*****

My Art

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Special Snowflakes

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When conservative cultural warriors, Twitter Trolls, or dyspeptic gasbags like Rush Limbaugh call you a “Special Snowflake”, I have discovered, to my chagrin, that they don’t mean it as a compliment.  In their self-centered, egotistical world you have to be as emotionally tough and able to “take it” as they believe (somewhat erroneously to my way of thinking) they themselves are.  They have no time for political correctness, safe spaces, or, apparently, manners polite enough not to get you killed on the mean streets where they never go.  Being a retired school teacher who was once in charge of fragile young psyches trying to negotiate a cruel Darwinian world, I think I disagree with them.

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Have you ever tried to draw a snowflake?  Believe me, it is difficult.  Snowflakes are hexagonal star-shapes with enough lace and  filigrees in them to make it a nightmare to draw it with painfully arthritic hands.  The one above took me an hour with ruler and compass and colored pencils, and it still doesn’t look as good as a first grader can create with scissors and folded paper.  Much better to use a computer program to spit them out with mathematical precision and fractal beauty.  That’s how all the tiny ones in the background were created.  But even a computer can’t recreate the fragile, complicated beauty of real snowflakes.

You see how the fragile crystalline structures will break in spots, melt in spots, attach to others, and get warped or misshapen?  That is the reason no two snowflakes are alike, even though they all come from the same basic mathematically precise patterns generated by ice crystals.  Life changes each one in a different way.

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And that, of course, is the reason this essay is really about people rather than mere physical artifacts of cold weather.  Our fragilities and frailties are earned, and they make us who we are.  I have a squinky eye like Popeye from playing baseball and getting hit by a pitch.  I have a big toe that won’t bend from playing football.  They both represent mistakes that I learned from the hard way.

As a teacher, I learned that bipolar disorder and anxiety disorders are very real things.  I lost a job once to one of those.  And I spent a long night talking someone out of suicide one horrible December.  Forgive me, I had to take fifteen minutes just there to cry again.  I guess I am just a “special snowflake”.  But the point is, those things are real.  People really are destroyed by them sometimes.  And they deserve any effort I can make to protect them or help them make it through the night.

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But people are like snowflakes.  They are all complex.  They are all beautiful in some way.  They are all different.  No two are exactly the same.

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And I really think boorish bastards have no right to insist that we need to take safe spaces and sanctuaries away from them.  Every snowflake has worth.  Winter snow leaves moisture for seedlings to get their start every spring.  If you are a farmer, you should know this and appreciate snowflakes.  And snowflakes can be fascinating.  Even goofy ones like me.

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Filed under 1000 Voices Speak for Compassion, artwork, battling depression, commentary, compassion, humor, metaphor, Paffooney, self portrait, Snow Babies, strange and wonderful ideas about life