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Synesthesia (Part Two; The Color of Music)

Okay, so on the synesthesia tests I didn’t score as a synesthete on the music/color test.  But I was extremely synesthetic on the tests for color/months/days of the week.  I was a little over the mark on letter/number/colors synesthesia too, but it was more a problem with manipulating the color-selector device when I don’t have a mouse to use on my laptop.  The test for music did not test the way I see colors with music.  They wanted me to respond to what color each individual note seemed to be, and that isn’t even close to the way I experience it.  For me, the perfect description of how synesthesia works for me is Bach’s Tocata and Fugue in D minor as it is depicted in Fantasia.

I was shocked when I first saw it.  The colors are wrong for this piece, but the visual experience is almost exactly how I experience music, especially wordless instrumental music.  The only problem with this piece is that the overall color schemes are wrong.  But this comes about because every synesthete sees the colors differently.  And I have no doubt that at least one of the artists who created this had synesthesia.  If there were more reds, yellows, and magenta in the opening and more indigo contrasted with silver later, this interpretation would be perfect.

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Music synesthetically works in two directions for me.  The picture above, called The Wings of Imagination, makes me think of La Mer by Claude Debussy.

If you listen to the piece, don’t look at the YouTube illustration, look at my picture if you want to see the music the way I do.  The following song, Don’t Worry, Be Happy, is a multicolored song that I can best express with the colors in the picture I call Rainbow Peacock.

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The full range of primary colors together in one picture, or one song, always means completeness, fullness, and happiness to me.  If there is absence of one or more of the basic colors from the color wheel, the mood and emotion present in the song or picture is altered to something other than happiness.  The Firebird Suite by Igor Stravinsky goes from the indigo and navy blue of fear and confusion to instances of angry red and feverish orange.  It would look something like this in the theater of my imagination;

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And one of my favorite instrumental pieces of all times, Prelude to the Afternoon of the Faun by Claude Debussy, is full of melancholy and sexual tension, deeply felt vibrations in the depths of my stomach, and would look like my picture Sleeping Beauty with its teal and blue melancholia juxtaposed with candle-lit yellows and wood brown mixed feelings of joy and anxiety.

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Now, if you have waded through all of this goofy color-and-music analysis from a source whose sanity is questionable at best, you probably have no earthly idea what any of it has to do with anything.  But if you have that aha!-moment and see it all clearly too, then I suspect you probably are a synesthete too.  Poor you.  It is not a treatable condition.  But it is also not a burden.  Learn to enjoy it.  It resonates in your very soul.

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Today is a New Day, but Same Old Me

Yes, that is not a real photo. It is a cartoon photoshopped onto a Picsart background. It is still me playing games with images.

Will Eisener’s Spirit is always taking time out of his busy immortal retirement to tell Moitle Schmertz’s Delicatessen about Mickey’s life problems, but only because it brings a smile to the things that crank Mickey’s irritation, gears. Everybody loves smiling irritations, right? And I do it because making humor out of foibles is cool. Especially when you get to use words like foibles, irritations, immortal, and delicatessen all in the same paragraph.

Facebook has repeatedly warned and threatened me about nudes in my illustrations. And a few days ago they suspended my account for three days and removed the Surrealism post over the naked faun. Will they get me again for the nude Ricky doll? He’s wearing a backpack or possibly a sack.

So, I am still complaining about many things and talking about flying saucers being real. That’s all I really need to do for today. Okay?

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Life is Surreal

Sitting nude amidst the flowers, while being a plastic doll.

As a writer and an artist, I am basically a Surrealist. But do you know what I mean by that?

Salvador Dali was a Surrealist. As was Paul Klee, Greg Hildebrandt and his brother Tim, Larry Elmore, Boris Vallejo, every other fantasy artist, and every science fiction artist. It means being an artist who can paint or draw something extremely unreal in a way that makes it seem entirely real.

I have been that since childhood. Childhood trauma, a vivid imagination, and a need to live mostly in my own head has forced me to be that.

Radasha, my faun, whom only I can see and talk to.

Surrealism is taking things that do not go together in real life and forcing them together in Realistic Art.

If you do a realistic painting of a tiger withlagle wings, you create a surrealistic image. Al Capp’s Lil Abner newspaper cartoon strip was surrealist every day. Almost all cartoon strips were or are. Calvin and Hobbs perchance? The talking cartoon bee on the cereal box in every Honey Combs or Honey-nut Cheerios commercials? In the modern world we are increasingly surrounded by Surrealism. AI-created art is nothing but surrealistic images slammed together by a randomizimg AI mind responding to the wicked thoughts of users. A girl in a bikini with a canine chihuahua head? Or more likely, a girl without a bikini and a chihuahua’s head.

A Telleron frog-boy from outer space.

The movie, The Birds, by Alfred Hitchcock is Surrealism. Having an orange-faced criminal for a president like the current President Pumpkinhead is definitely Surrealism. As the world becomes increasingly nonsensical, it becomes more surrealistic. And hence, the need for Surrealists like me.

Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll is Surrealism.

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Pencil to Digital Art

Ruben was my favorite student from my first year of teaching. He was a Hispanic boy who was not very tall, but made up for it with a big heart. The only problem I had with him was the time I caught him signing another student’s report card (as their father, not as a classmate.) I had a really tough first year as a teacher. But on the last day of classes in May of 1982, Ruben told me I was his favorite teacher that year. Damn, I had been thinking of quitting and finding another job. Because of Ruben, I was a teacher for 23 years at that school, and 31 years overall.

You can see how I modified the portrait with digital and AI tools. I used the anime cartoon tricks on the eyes and nose to make it look somewhat more like manga art than a portrait of what Ruben really looked like. I also moderated the use of yellow in the picture. It’s not that I misused it in the colored pencil sketch, but as my eyes have become more colorblind over time, the overuse has become more apparent.

Randy was my pain-in-the-tuckus student for my second year as a teacher. He stole comic books from me. He wore a Batman Halloween mask to class because my blue Ford Torino had fins on the back fenders. He tried to give me the nickname Batman but ended up being called Batty Boy for at least the next year because that is how I addressed him in saying good morning every time he wore the mask. His classmates thought it was the perfect nickname. Some class clowns you really love because they are actually funny.

I was always regretful that the original portrait had owl eyes due to the whiteout I used to repair the smeared highlights. The eyes had no visible highlights before I turned them both into blazing headlights. I also did the original on graph paper, hence, the design on the shirt. I could moderate that into a more normal shirt pattern in the digital redraw.

The main takeaway from this is that digital and AI tools like AI Mirror allow me to dress up my drawings despite my increasingly shaky arthritic hands. I have had arthritis now for 50 years.

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Playing with the Butterflies of Good News

Well, our house will have to have some major repairs to retain insurance because we live in the southern part of Tornado Alley. Climate change has greatly increased our ability to have all our possessions wiped out overnight. And having to pay for the replacement of the entire house is bad for the insurance company’s ongoing ability to make huge profits off of our large monthly premiums. I am so sad for them. Especially since they are putting this pressure on to gain an excuse for canceling our insurance while retaining all previously paid premiums.

I didn’t die last night, however. And the high winds warning is set to expire in two more hours from writing this particular sentence. Big Bad Wolf hasn’t yet huffed and puffed hard enough to blow our house down. So, maybe I am good and things are generally good.

I have overcome my health problems too for the moment. The urinary tract infection I thought I had is not there anymore. I am not following the Jim Henson Road to Death… for now at least. The doctor did give me a final medication to stop the burning sensation that fooled me into thinking I was going to die. Humorously, it turns my pee blue.

I do have to pay taxes as soon as Spring Break is over. And the probability that the Trump Tax Cut, the gift that keeps on taking things away, will increase the amount of taxes the parasites known as retired teachers have to pay. I am almost at the point once again where I can’t afford to pay what more I will owe and will have to beg the government for monthly payments.

And when this week is over, my family, who left me behind on the Spring Break Trip to see Number Two Son at his Air Force base, will return so that I am no longer the only living thing left in the house (besides a handful of Norway rats and roof rats as well as at least two ghost dogs.) They didn’t leave me behind because they don’t like me very much, but because I had at least one doctor’s appointment to attend, partial dentures being made for me to chew tough foods with (like tapioca pudding,) and the fact that my arthritis prevents me from doing a car trip from Texas to Washington DC with any degree of comfort and an ability walk once we get there.

Everything is good news now. Times are at least better than they were.

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The Faerie Forcaste

Poppensparkle invited Twinklebottom to enter the upper room of Pippen’s Tower in the castle known as Cair Tellos. Poppy’s face revealed great concern as she led Twinkle to the coffee table in what her young husband constantly called Poppy’s Worry Spot.

“So, what’s on your mind today? Why did you so urgently need to see me?” Twinkle said.

“It’s the creator. He’s not been well. And that’s concerning at his advanced age.”

“You mean the Slow One who writes our story? The one our existence depends on? How old is he?”

“He says he is 568 years old, but he writes fiction, so he lies a lot. In faery years he’s 138, so I guess he is probably almost 70 in human years.”

“Goodness, Poppy! If he dies, we all disappear into nothingness.”

“Yes, that’s the way being a faery works. We depend on the fools who believe in us.”

“So, what is wrong with him?”

“In January, one of those two crowns on his molar teeth that broke off during the pandemic got seriously infected. He had both teeth yanked out by a psycho lady dentist who nearly pulled his skeleton out of his body during the extraction of the stubborn infected tooth. He had to take lots of antibiotics and was in a lot of pain. He had trouble eating.”

“That sounds horrible, but survivable. Old Slow Ones go through that sort of thing routinely. The old lady who has dementia and talks to me all the time had all her upper teeth pulled out and something called a denichurr put in its place.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t the end of his health troubles. In the middle of January, he had to pee out four small kidney stones. That hurt an awful lot, and he got seriously infected somehow. He has this weird colon problem called diverticulosis, a condition where the large intestine is full of unexpected pockets that collect extra feces that stops moving and can become infected too.”

“So, he was also full of shit.”

“Um, yes. He had to get a shot of a super-powerful antibiotic in his behind, given to him by a lady nurse. He also needed an antibacterial powder that he had to stir into water, drinking 80 ounces of water or more a day. And he had to take lots and lots of laxatives too. At least seven days worth.”

“So, he got to know the household porcelain well.”

“It makes me glad that faeries are differently made and never have to poop.”

“You and me both, Poppy. So, is he dying?”

“I don’t think so. But I wish I knew how to help. He’s a weird old guy, but likable and funny. And we need him to stay alive and tell our story.”

“I know a dark faery I can consult,” said Twinkle stupidly.”

“Oh, that’s a truly terrible idea!”

An hour later, Twinklebottom sat in Dangerheart’s underground tea room.

“…So, that’s what is wrong with Mickey the creator. Is there anything you can do to help?”

Dangerheart grinned evilly. “I was watching through my crystal ball as the old hag stuck the needle in his butt. I laughed long and hard about that.”

“It isn’t really a crystal ball. It’s a Slow One child’s shooting marble.”

“It lets me scry on foolish mortals like the creator though. And I love seeing him get embarrassed or put through pain. I’m only sorry I didn’t get to see the psycho dentist yank the infected molar out. That would’ve been a hoot.”

“Isn’t there something you can do to help?”

“Well, he already went to the emergency room on Friday and after they scanned him and poked him and took his blood, they found out the infection was gone. They couldn’t do anything more for him with their science stuff. The pee doctor gave him some expensive pills that turn your pee blue. Surely there is no evil magic that I could apply that would be any funnier than that.”

“You think we don’t need to worry about him anymore?”

“I wouldn’t say that. President Pumpkinhead Trump will probably take away his Medicare and that will probably kill him. That should be funny to watch.”

“So, you think we are all doomed? The world will not remember us after our storyteller dies, and we will all fade away into nothingness?”

“Of course, we’re doomed. And you sure use the word So a lot. Or was that sew?”

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Cold Facts

I am struggling healthwise. Writing is still tough, though I am slowly getting better. Still, diverticulitis that becomes septic destroys major organs in your body, cripple you, and kill you. It is not provable that that is precisely what is happening to me. But as I continue to suffer, take more laxatives, and feel more pain, I have to wonder how much time is actually left to me to get anything done. I am still alive, though. And I did some writing today, little as it is. Small victories are still victories.

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Toccata and Fugue in D Minor

Johann Sebastian Bach may or may not have written his organ masterpiece, Toccata and Fugue in D Minor in 1704. All we know for sure is that the combined efforts of Johannes Ringk, who saved it in manuscript form in the 1830’s, and Felix Mendelssohn who performed it and made it a hit you could dance to during the Bach Revival in 1840 made it possible to still hear its sublime music today. Okay, maybe not dance to exactly… But without the two of them, the piece might have been lost to us in obscurity.

The Toccata part is a composition that uses fast fingerings and a sprightly beat to make happy hippie type music that is really quite trippy. The Fugue part (pronounced Fyoog, not Fuggwee which I learned to my horror in grade school music class) is a part where one part of the tune echoes another part of the tune and one part becomes the other part and then reflects it all back again. I know that’s needlessly confusing, but at least I know what I mean. That is not always a given when I am writing quickly like a Toccata.

I have posted two different versions for you to listen to in this musical metaphor nonsensical posticle… err… Popsicle… err… maybe just post. One is the kinda creepy organ version like you might find in a Hammer Films monster movie in the 1970’s. The other is the light and fluffy violin version from Disney’s Fantasia. I don’t really expect you to listen to both, but listening to one or the other would at least give you a tonal hint about what the ever-loving foolishness I am writing in this post is really all about.

You see, I find sober thoughts in this 313-year-old piece of music that I apply to the arc of my life to give it meaning in musical measure.

Toccata and Fugue

This is the Paffooney of this piece, a picture of my wife in her cartoon panda incarnation, along with the panda persona of my number two son. The background of this Paffooney is the actual Ringk manuscript that allowed Bach’s masterwork not to be lost for all time.

My life was always a musical composition, though I never really learned piano other than to pick out favorite tunes by ear. But the Bach Toccata and Fugue begins thusly;

The Toccata begins with a single-voice flourish in the upper ranges of the keyboard, doubled at the octave. It then spirals toward the bottom, where a diminished seventh chord appears (which actually implies a dominant chord with a minor 9th against a tonic pedal), built one note at a time. This resolves into a D major chord.

I interpret that in prose thusly;

Life was bright and full of promise when I was a child… men going to the moon, me learning to draw and paint, and being smarter than the average child to the point of being hated for my smart-asserry and tortured accordingly. I was sexually assaulted by an older boy and spiraled towards the bottom where I was diminished for a time and mired in a seventh chord of depression and despair. But that resolved into a D major chord when the realization dawned that I could teach and help others to learn the music of life.

And then the Fugue begins in earnest. I set the melody and led my students to repeat and reflect it back again. Over and over, rising like a storm and skipping like a happy child through the tulips that blossom as the showers pass. Winding and unwinding in equal measure, my life progressed to a creaky old age. But the notes of regret in the conclusion are few. The reflections of happinesses gained are legion. I have lived a life I do not regret. I may not have my music saved in the same way Johann Sebastian did, but I am proud of the whole of it. And whether by organ or by violin, it will translate to the next life, and will continue to repeat. What more can a doofus who thinks teaching and drawing and telling stories are a form of music ask for from life?

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The Truth About Not Writing

Most of my recent posts were not written in 2025. I have gotten very little writing done from January through now. The reason is that my health took a turn to the south. I had to have a broken and infected molar yanked out. I passed four small kidney stones. I discovered that I suffer from diverticulosis. And I had a deeply problematic bladder infection that threatened to affect my kidneys, my prostate, and even my blood. A blood infection, sepsis, and septic shock can cause death. It killed Jim Henson. I had to get a shot of antibiotic in my butt on two separate doctor’s visits. The tooth infection and subsequent molar extraction morphed into an expensive and excruciating procedure, giving the psychotic dentist a chance to squeal with joy as she made me writhe with jaw pain. I was on a soft food diet for two months. I had to take out credit accounts twice to pay for things because my deductibles had not yet been met at the beginning of the year. My recently recovered credit rating tanked again. The stress of the situation may contribute to future writing, but for the year so far, my writing time has been almost completely non-productive. I do, however, relax by drawing. And I have created a lot of them lately. Of course, most of the nudes I can’t post here as long as my post is set up to go to Threads and Facebook. Zuck can’t handle the sight of a bare breast. Not even in classic art pieces by Rennaisance masters.

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When I Was Twelve

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There comes a time when a mind turns inward and begins to learn that self is as complicated and in need of exploration as any African jungle or surface of a distant planet.

The Paffoonies today all come from my sixth grade school notebook.  When that school year ended I owned one book of my own, Rudyard Kipling’s First Jungle Book, the paperback version.  I kept my colored pencil drawings in my school notebook, and I kept the notebook in my bedroom to continue to fill it with drawings on notebook paper.

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As you can see, the notebook is age-worn and falling apart, but I still have it.  It still contains my twelve-year-old artistic visions, the beginnings of who I am as a thinking, drawing, story-telling human being.

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At one point I even had a package of pink notebook paper.

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So I admit it.  I was a dorky, weird child.  And I drew a lot of weird pictures at twelve.  Now you have some of the evidence.

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