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I am a burning candle,

Proof against the night.

The flame upon my wick,

Is good, but not real bright.

I’ve flickered in the darkness

For now, well, several years

Guiding children to the outhouse,

And allaying all their fears.

And the melting wax keeps running

From the wick now dripping slow,

And I keep on lighting darkness

Using every trick I know.

But no candle burns forever,

And my light is almost spent.

My light is just a flicker now,

And my wisdom, all now lent.

I confess that I have never been even remotely a lifelong nudist. I have been around them since the 1980s and have always had the secret urge to be one. But I was reared in a household dedicated to the wearing of clothes. My parents, my grandparents on both sides, and the community I grew up in looked upon those people who chose to live a nude life as hippies and generally crazy people.

The nudists I met, including two girlfriends who were willing to embrace the nudist lifestyle, were happy people. They didn’t care much about what other people thought about them. They enjoyed being naked, even in my presence, and the two girlfriends were both greatly amused by my embarrassment.

But what people thought about nudists, naturists, hippies, and people who were too happy was the main reason I didn’t become one in the 1980s. I was a school teacher. And my conduct and morals mattered to parents, especially white parents who were members of the Southern Baptist Church or the Southern Methodist Church. The Baptists officially disliked happiness unless you were wealthy. And Methodists are descended from a Puritan sect who frown at every instance of other people being happy in this life and not saving all smiles for everlasting harp-playing sessions in paradise. Teachers were meant to be dour, humorless, and good at discipline in their eyes. Never naked.

But I honestly did learn a little about why nudists are happier than the rest of us from my girlfriend Ysandra and the nudists she stayed with on weekends in the Austin clothing-optional apartment complex where her sister lived.

Ysandra was the first person I was able to tell about being sexually assaulted as a child. She and her friends helped me see that nudism was good therapy for lingering feelings of self-loathing. It didn’t matter to them what anybody looked like naked. What you looked like was not what it was all about. Very few nudists looked like Rock Hudson or Marilyn Monroe. Lots of them looked like Fatty Arbuckle and Olive Oyl. A few looked more like soft sculptures made out of old pillows with toothpaste holding them together. All of them were confident enough in their own skin to laugh about what they looked like naked. And changing your body self-image is what digs you out of the hole of self-hatred that the trauma put you in.

.

And from the nudists I learned that sleeping in the nude left you more refreshed and energetic in the mornings than if you spent the night sweating under blankets wrapped in wool pajamas. Even in winter.

This, of course, is something my father always knew, but never taught me.

And I spent most of my alone time when I was single, naked in my apartment. From about seven at night until the alarm goes off at five in the morning, I got used to not wearing clothes.

Of course I got married. That cured the naked at night thing. Nudity was against her religion. But I adjusted.

And what it all comes down to is that nudists are happier than we are because sunshine fills your absorbant skinsuit with Vitamin D. Playing naked out doors, singing songs, talking to naked people, telling stories with humor about being naked embedded in them, it all fills your soul with good feelings that come from surrounding yourself with the goodness of life that Adam and Eve once had in the Garden of Eden before the fall.

So, now that I am retired from being a teacher, and my wife has finally accepted that I am a crazy old coot who may forget to wear clothes when her Kingdom Hall friends are around if she doesn’t cut me enough slack, I get to be a nudist sometimes. When she’s not around to see it, of course. And I am happier. I am on the other side of hating myself for what once was done to me. And I don’t care if I look like Fatty Arbuckle naked.

Sometimes the thing a humorist has to write about is not funny. Sometimes it is something you have to write about because hard experience tells you that nobody deserves to go through what you once went through, not even yourself. And if you can do even one little thing to spare somebody else the pain you know too well, you simply have to…

And if you are one of those people who needs to face this demon down, here’s where you go for help:

crisistextline.org

Go there now if that’s what you need from this confessional article. This article is for those who don’t already understand.

When we are discussing self-harm, we are not talking about suicide. Someone who self-harms may at some point attempt suicide, but that’s not why they are doing it. And, in fact, they may be doing it as a release that prevents suicide.

And self-harm isn’t just the cutting of arms, wrists, or ankles that is commonly talked about. It may also be burning yourself in some way. When I did this as a teenager, I burned my lower back and the backs of my calves on the heater floor grate. It may also be punching or hitting yourself. I still battle the urge to hit myself with a fist to the forehead or banging my head on the wall during arguments or when I am hugely frustrated.

And, yes, I am admitting in this article to having done this to myself. You may already know why I did this to myself, but I need to briefly explain once again. I was a victim of a childhood sexual assault. An older boy trapped me alone and out of sight, got my pants off, and tortured my private parts to give himself a perverse pleasure. He told me not to cry out in pain or call for help. He threatened to make it hurt worse if I did. And he implied that if I told anyone, he would kill me.

Trauma, of course, is usually the cause of the desire to give yourself pain. It happens because you feel numb and want to feel something, and feeling pain is not avoidable. Particularly the way I did it. I went through a long period of burying the memory within my mind, not allowing myself to remember what was done to me until it all came rushing back during college as a PTSD flashback. But I hated myself and felt guilty every time I had any pubescent sexual feelings, burning myself to make it go away. When my doctor asked where the burn scars came from, at 18 I couldn’t tell him. When my high school counselor asked me about the obscure notes I put in a friend’s locker, at 17 I couldn’t tell him. When the Methodist Minister asked me why I was asking so many odd questions as he was explaining the birds and bees to my confirmation class, at 13 I couldn’t tell him. I did gradually stop hurting myself before the age of 20, but not before I planned to commit suicide in the spring of my 17th year. And I was lucky that my friend Ron was willing to listen to me during what I intended to be my last phone call ever. And luckier still that he told me he thought I was a good guy. I never told him, and he didn’t realize it, but he was the one who talked me out of killing myself with a knife.

It was God’s will, I guess, that I survived.

And here are the things I have learned since, both as a sufferer of this condition, and as a teacher and parent of others who have gone through similar things.

1. If you are doing anything at all like this to yourself, PLEASE TELL SOMEBODY. FIND SOMEONE YOU TRUST AND TELL THEM ABOUT WHAT YOU ARE DOING!
2. If you know someone who you suspect might be engaging in this behavior, ask them about it, specifically and in detail. And make them understand you are fully willing to help them in any way you can. If they can prove that you were wrong about what you thought they were doing, that’s not embarrassing, that’s the best possible answer you can get.
3. Find professional help. Psychiatrists and therapists are much better educated about this than they were in 1974 when it almost ended me. Suicide hotlines save lives.
4. Suicide Hotline; call 988
5. Life is about love, not suffering. And no matter how you feel about yourself, you deserve love. You don’t deserve suffering.

I now sit here at my computer, more spiritually and emotionally naked than I have ever been. It took three and a half breaks for crying and tears to write this post. But I had to do it. And I hope it helps.

As of today, I have posted at least one post every single day for two years. A 730-day streak.

Let’s put Mickey on trial for a minute. The question is something that ought to be considered. After all, the lead Paffooney is a picture inspired by William Blakes’s poem Tyger (hence the major misspelling in the picture) which is showing the tiger from the poem, and which is often considered a portrayal of the Devil, right before the tiger eats the child sitting in front of him. He knew somebody might see it that way. And he colored-penciled the thing that way anyway.

After all, we trusted him to teach our children for over 30 years. And if someone like Florida Governor Ron DeSantis had seen how he taught them to read and write, the possibly-racist, definitely-narcissistic little fat man would be screaming, “Evil! There is evil in our classrooms!” After all, Mickey used books in the classroom where he was reading out loud that the Civil War really happened, and it was about slavery, and the Confederacy actually lost. And he read that to classes in Texas! In a book called The Glory Field, by Walter Dean Myers. A black author! Certainly a case of evil CRT (meaning Critical Race Theory, not Crazy Ron’s Theory.)

And that danged Mickey also used a book in the classroom that showed an innocent black man being put on trial for the rape of a white woman, which Atticus Finch proved he didn’t do, and then he almost got lynched and lost the case anyway, causing the black man to die for a crime he didn’t commit, thus making all Mickey’s white students feel unnecessary shame needlessly because of Mickey’s political woke agenda, which he apparently had before “woke” was even a thing. That was in a book called To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee, which hasn’t been banned yet for some unknown reason and is written by a white woman.

How many awful things does Mickey have to do before we proclaim him hopelessly evil?

And you know this guy has embraced nudism after he retired from teaching. NUDISM! That means he likes to be naked. And not just when he’s alone (though mostly it is that.) He has gone to private nudist parks to be with other naked people.

And he’s constantly drawing and posting pictures of naked people. Sure he writes books about how being a nudist is calming and centering and helped him overcome childhood trauma. And he never practiced it while he was actively teaching so parents wouldn’t have to worry. And he doesn’t post naked photos of himself in front of us like many Twitter nudists enjoy doing. But he always thinks and writes about naked people. Well, maybe not always… but too much.

And liberal teachers who think like that are dangerous. It automatically makes him a groomer (and I’m not sure if I have it right, but a groomer isn’t just someone who uses curry combs on horses… is it?)

The point of it all is… if we look at Mickey’s record carefully enough, we are sure to find something that we can execute him for. And that should make the little fat man in white boots from Florida appropriately happy as he ascends to be the next Republican dictator of the United States. Evil will have been thwarted.

I have a certain mania about hoarding old toys. My toys. My children’s toys. Other toys like abandoned toys from Goodwill and ReSale stores and liquidation toys from the bargain bins in Walmart and Toys-R-Us.

You see, the dependence on the importance in my life of people who are not real began with my own perceptions when the lights first went on in my little attic. Yes, my parents and my grandparents were real people. And I sometimes admitted, when forced, that my little sister was too. But so was Tagger, my own stuffed toy tiger.

I definitely treated him as my best friend and greatest confidant. I told him my troubles, and he protected me from monsters in bed at night. He often was included when I played with my sisters and their dolls. He was wise and brave and caring, and he talked with a voice that sounded very much like mine. In fact, I often think he was such a part of me that, when I no longer needed him in bed with me to help me sleep, I internalized him and he became a part of me. He did not meet his physical end until my parents had to leave Iowa and move to Texas while I was in grad school. What my sister did with his physical form, I really never wanted her to tell me. The house had to be cleaned out, and stuffed toys from the attic did not fair well.

I had almost given up ever being married and having a family when, at the age of 37, I finally fell in love, and then had a family, first of two, and then of three by the end of 1995. On the day my oldest son was born, as the doctor had told me to go home and get some sleep, I went to Walmart and bought a toy tiger. He was not orange like my Tagger, but white. He was about the same size as Tagger, and significantly larger than my infant son. Truthfully, neither number one son or number two son actually played with him. They slept with him and used him as a pillow, but they never even gave him a name. It was my daughter, my youngest child, who took him over and made him into a her. She named her Baby Tiger, loved her, talked to her, carried her around everywhere, and miraculously never loved her to pieces to the point that we don’t still have her 24 years later. The photos of her prove the miracle.

I am not Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes fame. But I do understand the importance of toy tigers. They help to make you who you are. And while they are technically not real people, technically you could argue, “Yes, they are too real!” and argue it very loudly. Of course, people will think you are a crazy fool if you do. But I doubt that changes anybody’s mind about Mickey.

NO, it’s not Italian. It’s nonsense.

And so is the internet.

I have discovered my primary email is on the dark web. What does that mean? It means that nonsense can bite you if you are not careful.

I have, of late, been barraged by messages from followers that I thought were interested in my books or my drawings. They said, “Hello.” I said the same in return. They asked where I was from. I answered, “From the Dallas suburbs. And I am here on Instagram to promote my books because Elon has made Twitter funky.” They ask, “Are you married? And do you have kids?” And I tell them I have been married for 27 years and have three grown children. And they ask if I am seeking a relationship.

Uh-oh!

Almost instantly they fall in love with me. They ask for a picture. I give them one where I look disheveled and greasy. They tell me how handsome I am.

Yes, I know I should immediately leave the conversation and block them.

But they tell interesting made-up stories about their starving children and how they recently lost their job.

And they are all young enough to be my grandchildren, and they have little-girl faces with pleading expressions. And they show me pictures with very few clothes on, and immediately start calling me “honey,” “baby,” and sometimes “sweetie.” And before the first conversation is old, they tell me they are in love with me and they need money for something.

And they have to be reminded repeatedly that I live with my wife and my daughter. And I am older than dirt. And I am not looking for a new tomato to squeeze. And I try to be polite as I tell them, “I am broke. I am a retired teacher, so of course, I have no money. And you look like a little girl to me. And please go away. Stop talking.

And then, after I make them explain how to find a WhatsApp app so we can talk encryptedly, and I made about five of them tell me that in the past week, even though I am now an expert on WhataSapp, I sometimes receive naked pictures from them to make my wife angry with, and sometimes I can see their phone number starts with 234 which routes their communications through Nigeria and firmly provides proof that the authorities told me means they are scammers. (I got that information from the time a Russian man tried to blackmail me and I turned the matter into the police who forwarded it on to… the FBI? Maybe?)

So, today I had to yell in all CAPS to one of them, “I know you are a scammer, so LEAVE ME ALONE!” And I blocked two of them before I wrote this post.

I am not paying for cancer treatments for any African princesses’ mothers.

And I know that I should not answer any more young ladies’ DMs. The email address on the dark web guarantees more of them will come my way. They think I am an easy mark. But some of them might actually be interested in books. And if they freely give me nude pictures, I can use them as models for nude illustrations to use with my nudist and naturist stories.

Geez, I am bad!!!

When I saw that she had passed, my first recollection was of watching her in the movie 1,000,000 Years B.C. I watched it on the midnight monster movie that I was forbidden to watch.

Of course, at twelve in 1968, I saw her without the fur bikini in my wicked little mind’s eye. And I believe I shucked off my pajamas too to give her full naked support as she fought and ran from the dinosaurs.

I was wrapped in my quilt, though, because Iowa can be cold after midnight, and I never knew if somebody upstairs would hear the television playing the movie real low and the commercials with the sound off so they could come halfway down the stairs and yell at me.

She was my idea of a perfect woman.

And I never actually saw her completely naked. Just like I never saw Annette Funicello au naturel. I bought Playboy magazines in college because Raquel was in them. But she was never fully naked in any of them. You don’t actually need to see that to know she’s perfect.

But even perfect people don’t last forever. Especially when they’ve already lasted for more than eighty years.

And people I really thought might last forever began proving that no one is immortal. First George Burns some time ago fell short of his 100th birthday. And my father died in 2020, shortly before he turned 90. And my mother died in 2021. And Betty White didn’t make 100 either.

So, there is no immortality. Not that you can prove in anyone who physically, provably exists… or ever existed. And now Raquel Welch is also gone.

And I think about my own mortality. And I slowly shake my head.

I am slowly losing the ability to see.

But things have never been more clear.

The world is literally dying,

And it is life-threatening to be here.

And yet, what dies can be reborn.

And the blind can better hear.