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Stoicism for Teachers

I will attempt to share with you now a bit of hard-earned Stoic wisdom learned not from Greek philosophers, but from long years worth of trying with all my power to teach anything at all to twelve-and-thirteen-year-olds. Bear with me, I am not crazy. I am a retired middle school teacher.

*No matter how naturally gifted you are with teaching skills, you have to learn everything about teaching the hard way, trying and failing repeatedly until you get it right, or until the students kill and eat you.*

*The only person whose behavior you can control is you yourself. Student behavior is chaos.*

*While you can’t control student behavior, you can use your behavior to corral attention and lead them towards something that resembles civilized behavior. (But learning how to corral those little piggies can take forever.)*

*You will want to do everything “the easy way” because that is the only way you can reach classroom goals in a reasonable amount of time. Of course, it takes practically no time to learn that there is NO EASY WAY!*

*Most teachers rely on drill and practice, and this is why there are so few excellent teachers. Drill and practice is the most effective way to teach students to hate the subject you are trying to teach.*

Students quietly studying, a thing no students in real life actually do (except for the fact that some of the pages in his textbook have obviously been torn and folded on the left side of the book to conceal love notes.)

*Students learn best in a “Laughing Classroom” where they talk to each other, activities are creative and sometimes loud, and learning becomes fun.*

*Many principals consider “Laughing Classrooms” to be a good reason to punish or dismiss a teacher.*

*Good teaching is a subversive act. Only the people who are supposed to teach or learn really want it to take place in most schools.*

*All of your students will misbehave at one time or another. Some only briefly and very mildly. Others for an endless period of time that you hope ends short of murder.*

*When a student misbehaves and you have to take them into the hallway to yell at them and/or murder them, you secretly tell them that you believe in them, describe the behavior and why it disappointed you, and then describe what they should have done instead. Follow that by asking them if someone else needs to get involved, parents, principal, police, or executioner, or if they would like to go back in the room and try again.*

*Your worst students are the ones who need you the most. You better learn somewhere along the way to love past the ugly.*

*Nothing you will ever do in your career will beat reaching the unreachable and teaching the unteachable. I pray that you will get to experience it at least once. And no one but you and that student will ever know about it.*

Now you can go be a school teacher and be all Stoic like Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius. And there was no secret code for anything evil in that last one. If you ever experience it, you will know then what I am talking about. Not everything you are proud of doing in life has to get a gold medal on a stage to be worth doing. But if you are a teacher, you already know that.

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In the Night I Think Dark Thoughts

I have walked for a thousand years

Through a night stocked full of morbid fears

Past haunting shouts and cruel leers

As watchers dog me and drive my tears.

And yet in dreams, I focus sight

With eyes that search to see the light,

And I reach upward with all my might

To touch the answer which is right.

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Softly Turning the Hourglass

Being an essayist means thinking about things, ordering what you think about, and writing it all down in the best way you can manage. And so, there comes a time when you begin to think about philosophical stuff. Unfortunately, this is some of the stuffiest stuff you can think about or write about. Why do we exist? What is the meaning of life? What should we care most about? Why should we care about anything?

The proper time for me to think and write about this stuffy stuff is now. I am nearing the end of the story. The last page could be written at any time now, heart attack, stroke, car crash, or murder on the street by a teenager with an AR-15. Then the book will close and I will write no more.

My dog, Jade, never got to turn fully into a people before her story ended last month.

But what even IS time? Do we know? Physically it can be measured only by the movement of a mass of particles through space. The minute hand ticks over from 12:01 to 12:02. We recognize that as time. Length, width, height, and the fourth dimension is time. What, though, if we were able to see it from a possible fifth dimension that we don’t at present have the ability to see? All in one big massive construct, our whole life at once, every movement, every thought, every change, every emotion all together at the same moment in fifth-dimensional reality? If we dare to believe in a higher power, a god, then isn’t that how he perceives everything?

So, I have put together in this essay several Paffoonies with no real background to them. Moments from my life. Kernels of Mickey-corn to stand in for the beginning, middle, and end of my story. I will use Paffoonies to wax philosophical about things as I still find myself with time for waxing stuffy-stuff. Probably Multi-paffoons if I am being honest. Even bad clowns like me have to deal with philosophical questions. The un-examined life was never worth living. So, it was never the path I chose.

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Anita Jones, the Little Red-Haired Girl

Anita Jones is a character in several of my books, but she also represents a girl from my own childhood who was as much of a regret for me as she was for poor old Charlie Brown.

Anita Jones, of course, is not her real name. You can’t even look at the picture and tell by what she looks like who I am secretly portraying. But the thing is, she was definitely real to me. And I would still be horrified to have her find out how I really felt about her.

She was not my first crush. I mooned over the beautiful Alicia Stewart (also not a real name) from second grade through sixth grade. But Anita was always right there. Often right behind me and to my left whenever I turned around on the playground. Not looking me in the eye, but probably looking at me until I began to turn. I know I looked at her whenever she wore dresses or shorts. She had beautiful peach-colored legs.

There was a time when, in Music class, the boys were forced to ask a girl to be a dance partner in the square dancing lessons that Miss Malik was giving us. My best friend Mark had asked Alicia to dance with him, so my number one choice was already taken. And when it was my turn, Anita looked at me with those wonderful brown eyes and heart-shaped face. And I… was too embarrassed to pick her. Then everyone would know how I really felt about her. So, I picked my cousin instead. My heart was lodged in my left shoe for three days after the look I saw on her face. Not my cousin’s face. The brown eyes and heart shape.

Then later, when I was on the high school bus to Belmond, Mickey Schmidt (we never called him Michael because I was Michael) made a joke that embarrassed me.

“Have you ever been caught masturbating in the bathtub?”

“No,” I told him, in disgust. Anita was in the seat across the aisle listening.

“It’s a good place to do it in, then, ain’t it.”

I turned as red as any maple leaf ever managed in late fall. She was smiling at me.

“I would’ve liked to have seen that,” she said. “I bet you even have a lot of hair down there.”

I would’ve laughed if I hadn’t been so embarrassed that my head might’ve caught fire.

But thinking about that humiliating moment on the bus later, I realized that she had actually been brave enough to admit she was thinking about my genitals. I had never asked her on a date or sat beside her in Art Class as I should have. My life might’ve been very different if I had. Even if I had asked her to dance.

But somewhere in the Multiverse, a parallel me is probably married to a parallel Anita. And I bless them for what might’ve been. At least, it’s lovely to think so now.

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Silly Tyger!

I think I posted this picture once before and told you it was inspired by William Blake’s poem The Tyger!  That is still true.  I wasn’t telling a lie, at least, I don’t believe I was.  So the poem goes like this;

The Tyger

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Tyger
The idea is that the Tyger represents some unknowable evil that we must fear and respect because it is beyond our understanding.  But the kid in the picture seems to be unafraid.  Was that a mistake?  Or was I really thinking this?
CalvinHobbes
Apologies to Bill Watterson for stealing his cartoon for this post.  I needed a more dangerous-looking Tyger than the one I had.

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Cissy Moonskipper Meets the Nebulons Part 4

The First Encounter with Prince Porodor

The organic thing clinging to Cissy’s skin looked like a space suit, but felt like a herd of plooberbeasts was sucking on her body with their oily tongues.  She pulled at the armpits and crotch to try to adjust out the discomfort.

“I am told that if you pinch the Danjer suit too often, it turns your skin a darker blue,” Suki said.

Cissy looked down at herself and consciously tried to quell the urge to pinch it furiously.

They moved upward into the massive headspace of the space whale, following quietly as the head warrior led them to meet the prince.

Prince Porodor was standing in front of the inside wall of a space-whale eye.  The eyes functioned like windows on a spaceship.  You could look through it and see out into space.  But the whale could see through it because of a wide web of optic nerves that colored the skull walls around it with a spiderweb of nerve ganglia.  There was a transparent panel in the middle of the eye that picked up images from outside and inside the whale simultaneously.  It also framed the imperious-looking Nebulon leader like a halo.  He stared down at Cissy and her two companions like an angry king.

“We must decide if the Earther Humaniti lives or dies here.  The Lupin Stardog as well, though their fates may not match,” the prince said.

“Captain Cissy Moonskipper saved a large number of our clan members from slavery to a planet of Stardog pirates.  We owe her our lives and freedom.”  Suki’s expression was defiant, though her voice was calm and reasonable.

“We are at war with the Earthers and the Galtorr Fusions of the Imperium.  They owe us our freedom for violating our rights as star-farers.”  The prince gave a thumb-down gesture with his right hand.

“It is true they treat us unfairly, but they are not all the same, just as Nebulons are not all the same.  This one is different.  She is good and caring.  If we kill her after what she has done for us, we are being no better than the evil Earthers we war against.”

“True, Sister Suki.  But Nebulon Law will decide.  And who is Nebulon Law?”

“You are my prince.”

“We shall test her, then.  If she passes, she will live.  But the Lupin must be rendered into whale food.  We will tolerate no such vermin on this space whale.”

“This Lupin child is different, my prince.  She is the loyal pet of Cissy Moonskipper.  Without her to lead the way, we would not have been able to make our way out of Stardog slave pens.”

“Very well then.  The pet’s fate will be a sharing of the master’s fate.  They both die… or both will live.”

“Know this, then, my prince.  If Cissy is fated to die, you must kill me too.  I owe her a life debt that cannot be repaid if I allow her to die.”

The prince’s face looked disgusted and angry to Cissy.  But he nodded his agreement with Suki’s conditions.

“Suki, why is he saying everything in Galactic English?  He must know that both Friday and I understand what he’s saying.”

Cissy indicated Friday, quaking and shaking like she was standing on a machine for mixing sand and ferrous particles to make ferrocrete. 

“He wants you to understand.  He wants you to be afraid.”

“I don’t fear him.  I’m almost as tall as he is.  And I’m better looking too.”

“He can hear you.  But, in this case, that probably helps you.”

The prince snapped his fingers repeatedly.  “The racial testing!  Here and now.  Bring me the twins!”

The people watching this unfold, blue-skinned all, moved about to get out of the way.  A group of what were obviously Vorran women dressed in the orange gear of the Vorranac Clan led two naked male children into the headspace of the whale.  One was obviously a Nebulon with blue skin and yellow hair with the two red cheek spots on his face.  The other one was very peachy-pink colored, and looked for all the world like he was the same race as Cissy.  Though his hair was also blond.

“Hear this, Cissy Moonskipper, would-be savior of Nebulon slaves, these two children are alike in almost every way.  Tell, me… for the sake of your life and life of your pet… How are these two children different?”

Cissy looked at the two naked boys.  Same height.  Same basic facial features.  Same haircuts.  Same taciturn expressions.  She hadn’t failed to notice that the prince had called for twins.

“They are not different.  They are the same.”

The prince chuckled in a way that reminded Cissy of villains in holodramas.    “You are quite wrong, Cissy Moonskipper.  Look at these two brothers.  They are both the children of two Nebulons born in captivity and sired by a slave owner who was a white male Earther.  One, whose skin is blue and has the red radiation-absorbing organs on his face, bears the dominant genetic codes of the Nebulon race.  The other, his Earther-like brother, has only the recessive genes of his slave-owning Imperial father.”

“So, what does this mean?” Suki challenged.

“The test has been failed.”

“Why is this so?” Cissy demanded.  “Surely if they are twin brothers, they are equal in the sight of Nebulon lawmakers.”

“No,” growled the prince.  “Neither one is a citizen of this space whale because of their tainted blood.  But the one with the dominant Nebulon genes can live among us and serve us for his long Nebulonin lifetime.  The other one, even with the protections of a Danjer suit, will eventually sicken and die from the exotic radiations generated by the interior environments of a space whale.  We may as well subject him to the same sacrificial ritual that will be used to dispose of all of you.”

Cissy was stunned.

The head warrior stood before them.  “I will now take you to the place of feasting and leisure.  You will have stentoriac sekktons of time to eat, drink, and be happy.  Then we will assemble in the bowels to dissect and render you into food for the whale.”

“Stentoriac sekktons?” Cissy asked.

“You might want to think of it as three Earth days.  Seventy-two hours,” Suki said.

Friday buried her puppy face in Cissy’s side and let the tears flow.

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The Faun In the Forest

To be naked and free

In a world we can see

Is so precious to me

That is what I must be.

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The View from Before the End

This could be a Filipina niece dancing for TikTok, except it’s not. Even all the nieces and nephews have grown to adult size now. Well, the youngest of my wife’s younger sister’s kids might be about this age… but it is not her. Some people in my stories and artworks are made up from thin air.

I have gotten old. This summer has made me feel not merely old… but most sincerely old.

My family of five and my sister on the end. My wife is the shortest one in the picture.

I was visiting my sister at the family farm in Iowa. My whole immediate family, two sons, a daughter, my wife, and I were together again all in one place for the first time in a couple of years. I made it clear that I plan to move to the farm from the Dallas area sometime in 2025. Getting away from the air pollution, traffic, and Texas heat of the big city is essential to my hopes of staying alive for a bit longer. However, my wife is still employed as a teacher in Texas. My daughter is an adult but will stay with her mother in Texas to ensure that her mother will be okay without me. They may both eventually move in with my sister and I, but for now there is good reason to be apart for a bit. Health reasons for me. Teaching job without worrying about going to the ER with me for my wife.

My elder son from Oklahoma is with his fiancee here. My younger son in the Air Force brought his new girlfriend to meet us for the first time.

We more or less have to accept that the inevitable chess game with the Grim Reaper will happen, and nobody wins more than once or twice. Most lose the first try.

My blog was interrupted by my trip this week. The consecutive post streak will have to start again at zero. My writing has been seriously slowed by aging issues. I tend to pass out while writing and reading. I forget things in the middle of the process. Everything is mentally harder. But I am falling into vivid mini-dreams when I pass out. It sometimes seems like reliving a moment in my own life, or… strangely… reliving a moment in the distant past of someone else’s life. The Reaper’s chess board is set up somewhere near. I do have book projects under way. But twenty-four books may have to be enough. We shall see what more I can accomplish. We have to do more with less when we are reaching the end of the story of our life.

My faun, Radasha, is here in the farmhouse kitchen with fruits and vegetables.

Most of my relevant life goes on deep inside my head now. Connecting with the outside world is getting ever harder. The coming darkness does not scare me. Like Mark Twain once allowed… “I am not worried about what comes after life. I was not alive for billions of years before I was born, and I was not bothered about it a bit.”

So, what is today’s blog post actually about? About how the final page of the book will soon be written and the whole book closed. It will not cease to exist. It will simply be over. And what comes after will go on to its appointed ends without me.

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The Process

It starts with pen and ink, followed by colored pencils. Then I turn it into a jpeg. Then I plan a trip to Iowa to visit the family farm for a couple of days. My sister has cancer.

But I can use AI Mirror to edit the color blends and maybe change which direction the faun is looking. This will be my first trip back to Iowa in two years. It is important to get back home every now and then. I will probably take the faun with me.

A background makes the picture complete. The Picsart AI Photo Editor helped me do that quickly and with the correct colors and light source.

It is harder to keep your life colored correctly. Having a faun helps. Visiting my sisters on the family farm helps even more.

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Wants, Needs, and Afterthoughts

As you get older and closer to the last page of the novel of your life, it is entirely appropriate to take stock of the treasures you have accumulated in a long and rewarding life. In fact, you will probably have heirs looking to reap their inheritance after your long-awaited passing.

My children, unlike those of certain Republican politicians, don’t have much to gain by discovering the perfect untraceable poison. In fact, if I don’t live long enough to pay off my bankruptcy, they may only inherit medical debt and the rapt attention of Banko Merricka’s relentless debt-collecting agencies. (Since originally posting this essay, I have paid off my bankruptcy and inherited a third of the family farm. So, it is time to start letting the dog taste my food before eating it.)

But, as I am taking stock, what exactly do I need before I get the final handshake from Mr. G. Reaper? It turns out, I probably don’t need anything else. I have written more novels than I ever expected to. My children are grown into adulthood and take care of themselves now. And I am confident my wife, at eight years younger than me, will find somebody new to berate and explain to the myriad reasons that the new person is wrong about everything, and always will be… even if what you said was something she said was true the previous week.

Sure, if I had all the access to medical care and medicine that most other countries see as a human right, I might live longer. But my medical condition is bad enough that I would be seriously prolonging the pain and suffering. I enjoy being alive, but every day is a painful challenge, and, over time, that tends to get you down.

But what more do I want out of life?

Grandchildren would be nice. But none of mine are married yet, and only one of them seems to have found one he permanently likes. The countdown clock is ticking on that matter.

Well, recognition as a writer would also be nice. I came close to winning in a couple of novel-writing contests. A few readers have read and loved some of my books. Only one person ever hated my writing that told me about it, and he was a voice in my own head. There was also one reader who was not me that was somehow traumatized by one of my lesser books. But I have published way more books through four different publishers than I ever believed possible two decades ago.

But I was a successful teacher for three decades. I touched more than two thousand lives with my work in four different schools in three different districts and ten different classrooms… teaching four different subjects. I have no regrets about how I spent my life and what I got in return.

So, I am writing this believing this is not a maudlin topic. I don’t think I am actually going to pass away this weekend. I will probably get to finish at least one more work in progress. But nobody can say for sure that we will survive next month. Or next decade.

But pessimist that I am, things always turn out better than I think they will.

And afterthoughts?

If I had a magic lamp with a genie in it, my three wishes for the future would be;

  1. That Americans would invent a pill that makes everybody into a genius filled with empathy for all creatures, even the vilest, human beings. And they would share it for free with the whole world.
  2. That we would handle the climate crisis and all the future crises at least as well as we handled the nuclear crisis of the ’60s, the Cold War, the Coke vs Pepsi War, the Bugs vs Mickey War and every other war that didn’t wipe us out as a species in the past.
  3. There will be no Monkey’s Paw consequences for our wishes being fulfilled. So, that’s how it is.

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