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Facing Forward

I honestly feel that death could take me at any moment. Arthritis constantly gives me symptoms and pains that could easily be the start of a heart attack . I felt like I was having a racing heart and tingling thing down my left arm when I woke up this morning. I could have called an ambulance and they would have put me in the hospital because my neck arthritis screws up every EKG reading I get.

And how am I to tell when the arthritis pains and neck problem with my spinal cord turns out to be a REAL heart attack? I would rather die than go bankrupt again.

So, I feel the need to tell stories to my family and share the many wisdoms life has taught me with them. It is something I need to take on soon and finish before I die.

First of all, I need to spread the word that the universe is alive and constantly thinking and self-aware. So, dying is okay. You simply return to the oversoul and merge back into everything as you were before you were born. The universe is alive because we are alive. The universe is aware because we are a part of its collective intelligence. It will go on even though we individually die… even collectively die as a planet. Death does not rule us at any point in the story.

And at 68 and a half, I know quite a bit about making my way in this world, and being happy, even though a lot of hard times and difficult events have passed over me in that time.

And if you are wondering what this essay is for… have you stopped to think what you should be sharing before the end comes? We all have a story. And it needs to be told and retold to make it real.

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Nerd Class

Skoolgurlz

Back in the 1980’s I was given the gift of teaching the Chapter I program students in English.  This was done because Mrs. Soulwhipple was not only a veteran English teacher, but also the superintendent’s wife.  She was the one gifted with all the star kids, the A & B students, the ones that would be identified as the proper kids to put into our nascent Gifted and Talented Program.  That meant that I would get all the kids that were C, D, & F in most of their classes, the losers, the Special Edwards, the learning disabled, the hyper rocketeers of classroom comedy, and the trouble makers.  And I was given this gift because, not only was I not a principal’s or superintendent’s wife, but I actually learned how to do it and became good at it.  How did I do that, you might ask?  I cheated.  I snooped into the Gifted and Talented teacher training, learned how to differentiate instruction for the super-nerd brain, and then used the stolen information to write curriculum and design activities for all my little deadheads (and they didn’t even know who the Grateful Dead were, so that’s obviously not what I meant).    I treated the little buggers like they were all GT students.  Voila!  If you tell a kid they are talented, smart, and worthy of accelerated instruction… the little fools believe it, and that is what they become.Aeroquest ninjas

Even the goofy teacher is capable of believing the opposite of what is obvious and starts treating them like super-nerds because he actually believes it.  I soon had kids that couldn’t read, but were proud of their abstract problem-solving skills.  I had kids that could enhance the learning of others with their drawing skills, their singing ability, and their sense of what is right and what is wrong.  I had them doing things that made them not only better students for me, but in all their classes.  And I did not keep the methods to my madness a secret, either.  I got so good at coercing other teachers to try new ideas and methods that I got roped into presenting some of the in-service training that all Texas teachers are required by law to do.  And unlike so many other boring sessions we all sat through, I presented things I was doing in the actual classroom that other teachers could also use with success.  The other teachers tried my activities and sometimes made them work better than I did.

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Yes, I know this all sounds like bragging.  And I guess it probably is.  But it worked.  My kids kept getting better on the standardized tests and the State tests that Texas education loves so much.  And Mrs. Soulwhipple was still the superintendent’s wife, but she did not stay a teacher forever.  She eventually went to a new school district with her husband.  And guess who they started thinking of when the question of who would be the next teacher for the nerd classes was considered.  That’s right, little ol’ Reluctant Rabbit… that goofy man who drew pictures on the board and made kids read like a reading-fiend… me.

So, a new era began in Cotulla.  In addition to still getting to teach all the deadheads (because they weren’t going to trust those precious children to anyone else, naturally), I began teaching at least one edition of Mr. B’s famous Nerd Class every school year.  We actually assigned long novels and great pieces of literature for the kids to read and discuss and study in depth.  Novels like To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee and Across Five Aprils by Irene Hunt were read.  We began talking about “big ideas”, “connections to the wider world”, and how “things always change”.  We began taking on ideas like making our world better and how to help our community.  Kids began to think they were learning things that were important.  We did special units on Exploring Our Solar System, The World of Mark Twain, Finding the Titanic, and The Tragedy of Native American History.  And we spent as much as a third of the year on each.  I am myself cursed with a high IQ and a very disturbing amount of intelligence.  I am the deepest living stockpile of useless facts and trivia that most of my students would ever meet in their lifetimes.  And even I was challenged by some of the learning we took on.  That’s the kind of thing that makes a teaching career fun.  It kept me teaching and meeting new students and new challenges long after my health issues made it a little less than sensible to keep going.  And if I manage to tell you a few Nerd Class stories in the near future, then at least you stand a chance of knowing a little bit about what-the-heck I am talking about.  So be prepared for the worst.  I am retired now, and have plenty of time for long-winded stories about being a teacher.

 

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If the Show Does Go On

The audience has begun to actually form. My stories are being read and evaluated as a good thing. It could really take off if only I had the power to fan the flames of reading and liking the kind of stories I create. But so many things threaten to literally break my legs. Tornado season is here, and our house is so poorly defended that the insurance company threatens to take away the expensive coverage we have been paying for. Mango-flavored Hitler is creating a tsunami of economic waves of crash and failure. My worldly wealth may be taken away to feather the nests of all the Trump-approved grifter birds. Banko Merricka no longer has my accounts, but they have a reputation for re-collecting already-paid debts.

If I can continue filmmaking in the theater of my imagination, I should produce a few more books. The one that is now done and edited twice is Cissy Moonskipper Meets the Nebulons. It is the second book in the Cissy Moonskipper’s Travels series of science fiction novellas. Cissy meets the blue-skinned race that produced Suki Vorranac (pictured above), Cissy’s pilot, rescued from pirates in the first book. All that is left to accomplish is the publication step.

I also have half a manuscript of the above novel created already. The Haunted Toy Store is a break from my usual interconnected stories. It tells of people’s weird encounters with a decrepit old toy store that never seems to sell any of its antique toys. It turns out that the toys they do sell are the customers they lure in, bought by a customer base of dead people who need to play with human souls to try to solve their ghost problems.

I also have this book well underway as a manuscript that’s about one-fourth of the way through a longer-than-usual story that weaves together the loose ends of several previous Hometown Novels. He Rose on a Golden Wing is a story originally titled Valerie in Darkness. It is about teenagers working as a group to overcome their collective traumas.

If I can do it, I will publish these books before I die. The show must go on… if possible. Don’t wish me a broken leg because that may well happen.

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Trump Poo in Toon Shots

This time around I have been ignoring the essential cartoonist’s duty to comment on the doody made by the doo-doo makers who are once again in charge of everything because the fox eventually gets to run the chicken coop when the MAGA hens get high on sniffing all the chicken poop. Especially when the poo-poo smells are delivered by FOX News. I need to make up for that in purple paisley prose along with good cartoons from the cartoony gents who have signed their newsy work in the news.

I refer to the Pumpkinhead President with the bull-puckie cannon in place of a mouth as the Monkeyother Firetrucker. You can probably figure out which letters to leave out to arrive at my actual assessment of Don Cheetoh Trumpioni. He is kissy-kissy-bottom friends with the Porkypine Putin because the Russian bear has probably gotten photos of the Pumpkinhead with the Golden-shower Russian Bares. Yes, I know I am being disrespectful. But I suppose I have to go miles and piles of insults further to catch up with the insulting hurricane of disrespects he has heaped on me and us.

If Mr. Codor’s Russian Bear bites the Pumpkinhead’s Pumpkin off, it will slow the fellow down some because he will no longer have a burger-eating hole to suck in McDonald’s burgers with. It won’t kill him. Assassins have already proved that. And he’s the only felon in history to be convicted of so many felonies and then just allowed to run for Prexydent and go Skotty-free. No crime or crime fighter can touch him. The thick layer of bronzer prevents that.

So, it really is my sacred dooty as a cartoony maker of Paffoonies, as an American Cartoonist, to make dookie on the kookie as the subject of cartoons. And If you don’t understand what I am trying to say, it’s, “This Monkey is not a good Monkey. Let’s fire him, with a really hot fire.”

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Emergency Fillers Because I am Old

Some days, things like poor health happen, making me want to fill space to keep my daily consecutive essay number rising to 257 straight posts. I know it doesn’t mean much. I could be commenting on the numerous evil things that the Trump Pumpkinhead is doing—criminal things committed with a thick sauce of hatred, ignorance, and malevolence. But my stomach is already churning for other reasons. I offer a pretty girl picture that I drew with the help of AI Mirror. A distraction for your viewing pleasure and attention redirection. I would write more, but I really can’t.

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Making New Pictures of Old Ones

Anita Jones, in an old pen and ink and colored pencil drawing.

Anita Jones updated it with AI Mirror using an anime-style overlay.

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Bobby Niland and his little brother Shane in an original pen and ink and colored pencil drawing.

Bobby and Shane updated with AI Mirror.

Bobby and Shane at their super-cool treehouse. Background provided by Tapcolor Pro and Picsart AI Photo Editor.

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Doing AI-Enhanced Art on Applehead Andy

I started this goofy-cartoon art project with a sixteen-year-old cartoon character I drew in 2009. Applehead Andy was a stupid young boy who claimed he was only stupid because he had an apple for a head. He was initially a marionette made out of fruit by the puppet-maker Paghetto. When the Purple Fairy gave him life, he created in him a flaw where any time he needed to tell a lie, he stupidly told the truth. This resulted in Andy always having to say, “I know I am stupid, but it is because I have an apple for a head.” I drew it on white paper with pen and ink and colored pencils.

Here he is in his apple-headed glory after the last colored-pencil bit was added.

Here he is again as I have now used Picsart AI Photo Editor to add an apple-blossom background.

And then I asked AI Mirror to reinterpret him as a Manga-style character. This made him look more human and much less apple.

And then with AI Mirror again, I reimagined him as a more realistic cartoon human, though I forgot to make certain that the AI program knew he was a boy, not a girl. So, Applehead Andrea.

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Pirate Novels

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My first novel-length piece of writing was attempted in college.  I finished it in four years.  It was a pirate tale about a young man, a pirate named Graff the Changeling.  You see him in this illustration I created in 1980 with his two young sons, Rene and Emery.  Because their mother was a fairy, the boys have pointed ears and horns.    It was an attempt at serious fantasy adventure fiction that was so awful, it became a comedy before it was through.  I called it The Graff Tales, and I still have it.  But I promise you, I will never, ever try to publish the horrible thing.  My sisters served as my beta readers for this story.  They both liked the oral stories I told, and they eagerly awaited something like they remembered from our shared childhood.  They both were a bit disappointed by my first prose attempt.  There was a knight called Sir Rosewall in the story.  He was a hapless knighted fool who lived in poverty and swore to reclaim his honor with great deeds, but as he goes to sea as a kidnapped sailor, all he manages to do is fall down a lot and bump his large head frequently.  In the first scene when he enters the story, long about chapter four, he exits a cottage and has to punt a piglet to get out without falling down.  This pig-punting thing was repeated more than once with this character.  My sisters joked that the “pig-in-the-doorway” motif would be my lasting contribution to literature.  Fortunately for me, it was not.  I am probably the only one who even remembers there was such a novel.

But my biggest failing with writing and storytelling was always that I could be too creative.  The story featured a flying pirate ship that was raised from the bottom of the ocean by fairy magic.  The crew were re-animated skeletons.  The gorilla who lived on the island where the ship’s survivors had been marooned would also join the crew.  His name was Hairy Arnold.  One villain was the pirate captain Horner, a man with a silver nose-piece because he had lost his real nose to a cannon shot.  Another was a red-bearded dandy named Captain Dangerous.  But the biggest villain of all was the Heretic, who turned out to be a demon in human guise.  It was all about escaping from pirates who wanted to kill you and hitting soldiers with fish in the fish market.  There were crocodile-headed men and little child-like fairies called Peris that lived in the city where Graff was trapped and transformed into a monster by the Heretic.

My plot was too convoluted and my characters too wildly diverse and unlikely.  The result was something far too bizarre to be serious fiction.  The only way it could actually be interpreted was as a piece of comedy.  There-in lay the solution to my identity problem as a writer.  I had to stop trying to be serious.  My imagination too often bent the rules of physics and reality.  So I had to stop trying for realism and believability.

 

In the end all the main characters die.  All except for young Rene who becomes a pirate hunter.  Of course, I follow Graff and Emery through to heaven because, well, it was a first person narrative and the narrator died.  So, I vowed to myself that I would never let this horrible piece of nonsense see the light of day.  I would never try to publish it, rewrite it, or even tell anyone about it.  And so to this very day I… oopsie.

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Gooseberry Pie

I would like to contend that a blog is a form of self-portrait.  Do you want to argue with me?  Have a piece of Gooseberry Pie….

You see, gooseberries aren’t made from geese.  They don’t look like gooses… er, goosei… um, geese.  They aren’t the favorite food of a goose, unless, maybe…  Mother Goose.  The name is a corrupted form of the Dutch word kruisbes , or possibly the German Krausbeere.   You know, because people who speak English don’t know how to talk right.  They don’t have anything to do with geese.  In the same way, a person’s name doesn’t really help you understand the person that wears it.  You have to dig deeper.  Do you know, I have never actually tasted gooseberry pie?  I have seen and even picked the gooseberries.  They are danged ugly, spikey-furred snot-green berries.  I am not tempted in any way to put one in my mouth.  And yet, I should not judge gooseberry pie before I taste a piece.  I know people who adore gooseberry pie.  Maybe you are one of them.

The point is, blogs are exactly the same thing.  An artist, a writer, a producer of something, or a day-dreamy noodling goober has put together a blog to display their wares, show off their creations, and share their words and wisdom.  You have to look at them, warts and all, and actually take a bite.  You have to try them out and test them.  Follow them over time.  Read, absorb, and appreciate… not merely zoom through and look at the pictures… and maybe click “like” at the bottom of the post.

Of course, I admit, I do the very thing I am advising you not to do.  The first few times I visit a blog, I scan through and only focus on a few things that catch my falling stars.  (oop!  Shame on me… I should say “catch my fancy”.  Forgive me for lapsing into Mickian brain farts for a moment there).  But if I am lured into coming back, I dip deeper and read more… tasting it thoroughly, as it were…  And much of what I taste there will end up in my own recipe somewhere down the line.  I begin to learn who that blogger is, and their writing style… sometimes even their thinking style (though I don’t read minds… only smell brain farts and odoriferous mental cooking smells) and I picture them as people in my minds eye.  Sometimes I wonder if they match in real life the person I am picturing.  Of course, the answer is no.  People don’t look like what you think they should look like.  They don’t even look like what they think they look like either… even in photos.  So let me end this goofy pie-based argument about why blogs are self portraits with a few self portraits I have created that aren’t really what I look like , even if it is a photo.

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Me in the mirror, 1980
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Scary pictures of the artist as a creepy old man…

 

Self Portrait vxv
The novelist me…

 

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A wizard selfie taken at Mad Ludwig’s Castle in Bavaria.

 

 

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Who I am and who I was…

 

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Seriously grumpy me…

Gag!  Enough of the gooseberries already!  Or are they gross-berries?  I think that I really don’t look anything like me anymore.

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Synesthesia (Part One; French Blue Monday)

This link will help you understand Synesthesia

Francois spotlight

Yes, Mondays are blue.  Specifically French blue.  Every day of the week has its own color.  Sunday is golden yellow, Tuesday is a yellow-ochre,  Wednesday is indigo blue and sometimes changes to blue violet, Thursday is burnt orange, and Friday is solid wood brown, and of course Saturday is rich pure red while Mondays are not just any blue… they are French blue.  I learned the names of these colors from being a painter and using oil paints.  I experience these colors every week and they help me maintain the calendar in my stupid old head.  I began to realize when I first heard about the colors of the wind in the Disney movie Pocahontas that there was something to this everyday thing, something different in the way I see the world.  I have in the last few years learned that this condition has a name.  It is called synesthesia.

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It has been suggested to me by more than a few people that I don’t really perceive the world the same way “normal people do”.  When I was growing up, and going to school, I never had trouble remembering to capitalize the first word in a sentence.  I did however, have a great deal of difficulty with capital letters on nouns.  Looking back on that difficulty now, I can say without a doubt that I was having trouble not because I didn’t know the difference between proper nouns and common nouns.  It was because things like the word “dog” or “chair” had to begin with the right color.  Dogs are blue when you are talking about the color of the letters in the word.  But small “d” is blue-green, not true blue.  It doesn’t fit as well as the dark blue capital “D”.  And chairs are orange-red when you write them down, while the small “c” appears light green by itself.

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Sundays are Sun-days, and that’s why they are golden yellow.

I am told that most synesthetes are taken by surprise when they learn that they are seeing things differently than other people do.  I certainly was.  I always got funny looks whenever I described Thursdays as orange, or the month of November as sky blue.  My classmates in 4th grade thought I was nuts… of course, it wasn’t just for the orange Thursdays thing.  I was not a normal kid in any real sense of the word.  I always suspected that if I could look at the world through other people’s eyes, I would probably see the color green as what I called red, or that glowing halo that surrounded things when organ music played in the Methodist church would no longer be there.  But once I learned how synesthesia works I knew it was true.   The visual part of the brain can be scanned to show activity, and lights up on the scanner as if the brain is seeing bright colors when Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony is being played while the subject of the scan is actually blindfolded.  I am told that synesthesia is more common in left-handed girls.  My daughter, the Princess, tells me that she also sees color on printed numbers and letters.  She is left handed and also gifted at drawing.  I suspect she inherited the synesthesia from me.

Creativity

Synesthesia probably explains what this nonsense is all about.

Now, I acknowledge the fact that my synesthesia is self-diagnosed and not proven by any of the methods the articles I have read about the condition talked about.  But my personal experiences always seem to fall in line with descriptions of letter/number/color combinations and music/color combinations that I have read about.  And if I do have it, it is not the same as any of my six incurable diseases.  It is not a bad condition to have.  In an artistic sense, it might actually be a good thing.  I could use some good for a change.  Good doesn’t usually come from weirdness… not my weirdness, anyway.  (Oh, and capital “G” is lime green… as is the word Goodness).

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