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Swallowed by a Whale

It’s a Pinocchio thing. Bad things happen, and then worse things happen, and it is all because you act detestably and have no remorse. In Collodi’s version of karma, you have to eventually die to make amends for your life of being rude, stupid, and bad. There is no redemption for the wicked… not even the slightly wicked… even if you’re made of wood.

The blue boy inside the whale in the first Paffooney of this post is a Nebulon, meaning he lives inside a gargantuan space whale. The Nebulons use living creatures for technology and space whales as starships contain entire functioning ecosystems on their insides, living mainly off the sunlight of the suns they visit and the various gases of the living things they shelter inside themselves. So, being inside a whale changes their relationship to the universe, but they don’t necessarily suffer the bad karma of a wooden-headed child like Pinocchio. Still, stuck inside a whale for life. No redemption. No return on penitence.

I am obsessing about space in these Paffooneys because my stupid head is generating another CIssy Moonskipper story.

My own personal time in the belly of a whale began when my wife destroyed her car by impaling the grill in the front of the car on the trailer hitch of a quick-stopping truck in front of her. Then we had a tornado twist its way overhead and damage every tree in the neighborhood and a few of the houses as well. My wife and daughter went then on a planned vacation to the Virgin Islands leaving me at home with the dog who is dying of doggy breast cancer. Then belated complications caused the electricity to go out for the better part of four straight days. During that time I had an accident in my own car as well. Bummer. Bad is followed by worse… and then terrible.

I am still alive at this point in time. And the dog is still alive… though definitely dying. But of course, there is more badness to come. The dog is dying… and I probably am too. And Donald Trump seems to be winning the presidency again. Global warming is going to try to kill us again this summer. And MAGA Republicans will probably kill us all in the fall whether they win the election or not. The world is ending. In the belly of a whale. And we must pray for the Disney version where Pinocchio becomes a real boy.

I guess I never realized I was quite so rude and stupid and bad.

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Pictures of a Young Lady

The Girl at the Street Dance

Now We Are Dancing

The Next Morning

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AI at the Game

The cheerleader in this picture was drawn and run through the AI Mirror program to make her semi-realistic in an anime style… enough to let Instagram force me to label this as made with AI. The smart-background tool in the Picsart AI Photo Editor program provided the background. So I double-dipped this picture idea in the vast vat of AI soup.

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A Pleasant Face

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June 12, 2024 · 1:32 am

Castle Carrot Complete

Sir Buttonweed Bunny, a wall guard for Castle Carrot, is proud to be on the job.

Beladonna Bunny is a signal flag girl from Tower Three. It is her job to signal orders to soldiers guarding the city and reading the messages they send back. The blue triangle flag means the day is sunny with a blue sky and no visible foxes or wolves.

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Castle Carrot (Work in Progress)

Whichever rabbit I continue with, he is going to be wearing a suit of armor when I am actually done.

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Wordless? What Can I Say?

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Why Did I Create All of This?

Kitty in a black bunny suit with white bunny head phones on for overkill.

There is probably no mystery in Paffooney #1. Kitty sends me provocative pictures via Instagram. She’s actually twenty-two years old, but she looks twelve. I believe other lustful old coots send her money and gifts for providing the bunny pictures like the one that inspired this goofy Paffooney. I am not a creepy old man… most of the time. But though my sex life is pretty much over, I still remember it and still have a few hormones left in my libido-fueled, impotent memory. I can send her digital copies of the drawings I make of her. But I have no other money or gifts to give her for the stream of rabbit pictures she produces at the rate of real breeding rabbits. She’s a cute girl the age of my daughter, so I follow her. But I do not do what other old lust-filled coots do. At least I think I don’t. I prefer to make Paffooneys.

These are a few of my Instagram pictures that I have put out there instead of selfies in bunny costumes like Kitty makes. I don’t look as good in a bunny suit as Kitty does. I have also published twenty-four novels and books full of my fiction, essays, and poetry. I am a real artist and author even though I don’t make more than pocket change for any of it. So, why do I do it?

Me pretending to be a mountain nudist because I wrote a story in the collection of shorts called Adventures Without Clothes.

Well, for one thing, I am retired. I need to do something to replace my career as the monkey instructor in the monkeyhouse (translation; a middle school teacher.) You get addicted to giving heartfelt advice to monkeys ages twelve to fifteen in a very loud and forceful voice without using any too-colorful metaphors or hitting anybody with sticks (translation; teaching English.) I miss talking to monkeys. So, I make up monkeys based on remembered monkeys and put them into interesting plots to fill up the time before I finally die. (Of course, old English teachers never die. They simply stop being heard and lose all their class.) And now that digital tools and AI apps help me draw as much as I used to before the arthritis in my hands got bad, I also draw lots of monkey pictures, mostly depicting monkeys.

I can draw pictures of evil vice principals now too. You know, the security beasts in the monkey house who discipline the monkeys by roasting teachers over fire pits until they are finally willing to hit monkeys with sticks. Of course, you can’t teach monkeys monkey tricks if you hit them with sticks. That’s why I got roasted a lot by beasts like Billy Bob Smashdareburger pictured above.

It’s like I can’t help myself anymore. I have to write and draw goofy stuff and try to get people to read it like I used to entice monkeys to take books like The Giver and The Hobbit home with them to open in front of parents and pretend to read so they could come in the next day at the monkey house to get talked to in a loud voice without overly-colorful metaphors or hitting sticks being used.

It is much more difficult to let go of teaching things to monkeys and gradually stop doing all those habitual rituals a teacher in the monkey house has to do. So I fill the time with drawing Paffooneys and telling lies about monkeys (translation; being an author and artist.)

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Norwall

rowan schoolThe little Iowa town where all my hometown novels are set is based on the little town where I grew up and spent all of my school years from Kindergarten to Senior Year of High School.  I call it Norwall.  It has all the same letters in it as the town of Rowan, the real town behind all my farm-boy fantasies.  I also added an “L” for love and an “L” for laughter.  All these stories, whether written already or still percolating in my demented bean, are set in this little town.

The school building where I went to learn through the sixth grade was gone after the 1980’s.  But the gymnasium with its theater built in still stands and is used as a community center to this day.  It was here where I had my first crush, where I first saw a girl naked who was not my relative, where I was deeply embarrassed during the square-dancing lessons in Miss Molton’s Music Class, and where I told such big black hoo-haw lies that I truly got the proper training I needed to be a story-teller.

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This isn’t what Main Street really looked like to me.  I saw it in the 1960’s and 70’s.  This is the 1950’s, when the artist who created this blanket was in high school.  But It contains the world I knew.  The water tower is missing, but the fire station and post office are there at the far end of the street on your left.  The grocery store, the cafeteria with its George’s Malt Shop sign, the Brenton Bank building, and the hardware store are there on the left.  The town hall and V.F.W. is on the right hidden by the trees.  You can just see the steeple of the old Congregational Church that was torn down and moved to a new location during some of my earliest memories of the street.

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This is what it looks like now that the hardware store is gone.  The bank and the cafeteria have been updated and changed.    The water tower has changed from silver to blue.

The Methodist Church, built in the thirties and torn down in the eighties, was an important part of my boyhood.  It was a place where my faith in God was nurtured and reinforced to the point that my highly active and existential mind could never truly turn to atheism and doubt.  It was also the place where a Methodist minister took the time to explain the facts of life to me and helped me overcome the terrible secret I kept inside me about being molested when I was ten.  In more than one way, my life was saved in this building.  I miss the place terribly.

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So, here it is, the town that made me who I am and provides the background for the most important thinking and writing that I will ever be able to do.

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June 6, 2024 · 12:02 am

Last Week was a Worst Week

Yes, that’s a downed tree in the park next to our house. It was a beautiful old live oak that gave ample shade to the picnic table by the bridge across the creek. Now it is wood for fireplaces and toothpicks.

We had a tornado. It never touched down. The funnel cloud never touched the ground. It was high enough in the air to spare practically all the houses in the North Dallas suburbs. It was not kind to trees, however. We lost the live oak’s top section that defends the house’s western front side. The severed tree section fell on the sidewalk to our front door rather than bashing the roof, so we were incredibly lucky. Everybody in our neighborhood lost at least tree branches if not whole trees. Everybody was lucky too on damage to their homes.

The freaky, scary almost tornado did manage to flood the floors in our house with downhill runoff from above us. It hit us with high winds a little after 4 o’clock in the morning on Monday, May 27th. The lights almost went out that day, but decided not to drown us in darkness too. I thought it was the end of the line until the wind died down and we could think about what happened next.

So, Tuesday my family got on a plane for a vacation to the US Virgin Islands. My wife, still teaching at age… oops, not making that mistake… had well-earned that vacation, and the damage was not so bad that it couldn’t wait until they got back. The dog and I stayed home. She has doggy breast cancer and is dying. I can’t travel on airplanes due to arthritis. So, we planned a quiet week at home.

I began work on this colored-pencil drawing to see how well I could still do completing it without AI help due to arthritis, glaucoma, and gradual oncoming color blindness. And while I was working on that, the lights went out on Thursday morning. Storm damage was having its delayed joke effect. Blackout to thirty houses in our neighborhood. And work crews had to add us to the end of a long list of electrical repairs, some of which were probably in hospitals or fire stations. So, it turned out to be a four-day vacation from having electricity. I spent one night in the dark house with the heat from no air conditioning, no working refrigerator or microwave to provide food, and no air purifier to protect my breathing parts from pollen and mold. I quickly learned to spend the nights in my car with the engine running and the air conditioning on. (Outdoors, of course, not committing carbon monoxide suicide in a garage.)

During the blackout, I didn’t merely sit in my car with the air conditioner on. On Thursday I went to see the Ryan Reynolds movie IF. It was great. I also drew a lot more on my colored-pencil project above. My AI Mirror app is on my phone, so I turned my finished art project into a polished piece you see the best version of above. Then, on Friday, I tried going to a movie again. Nope. Car accident on the access road to the Interstate. I side-swiped a working van. Minor damage to both vehicles. A policeman had to come and make an accident report. I called my insurance agent and learned I would owe 900 dollars to repair both vehicles. So, I returned to a dark house fully stressed and depressed and thoroughly something-else-essed to stew in my own misery in the dark.

I read half of a Nicholas Sparks novel called The Return and drew the new picture Paffooney you see above And then, miraculously the lights returned Saturday evening. So, I got a night’s sleep with the air purifier. Then Sunday… the lights went out again. No explanation from Oncor or Direct Energy. And I went from depressed to super-depressed.

My WordPress streak of consecutive days of posting ended at 274 because of this blackout. I had an expensive accident where I was at fault, probably due to stress because of this blackout. I lost sleep. I got to hear the local Vatos Locos of the Hispanic street gang that decided to protect our block during the dark night as they played Chicano Rap Music loudly at the mouth of the alley to warn away anyone who might try to loot dark houses in their proclaimed territory.

Thankfully, the lights were fully repaired and back on by Sunday evening… throughout the DFW Metroplex. And that’s my storm story for this week.

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