Sir Isaac Newton is here realizing that in order to measure the rate at which the Moon falls to Earth, he has to invent calculus and thus discover gravity.
I am having a bad health day.
I feel terrible. I have the spiking and crashing of the blood-sugar roller-coaster going on, but causing diabetic depression rather than vomiting or coma.
I don’t believe in astrology. But I can predict things with the same accuracy rate as most astrologers.
Hillary and Norgay were on top of the world in 1953, but they had a long drop to come down from there.
No one needs to worry about me. I will not hurt myself. I will seek help if it gets any worse. But when you reach the top of the mountain, there is nowhere to go but down.
On WordPress I was recently at the top of the mountain (in terms of my audience numbers.) I was averaging 200+ views per day. There were more than 300 views twice last week.
But now it is dropping drastically. Although, I believe I will make more than 50 today.
Nudist Notions was the name of the post with the biggest post-viewing numbers. I suspect that Google’s algorithm had it high on the list when people were searching “nudists” and/or “nudism.” because it is a positive post about nudism.
But there was not an increase in likes. It was probably not actual nudists doing the viewing.
There were a lot of viewers from Russia and Brazil, according to my site’s metrics.
Halley needed help from Sir Isaac Newton to calculate the orbit of his comet, because Newton invented calculus, but Newton’s Principia would never have been published without the backing of Halley’s wealth and influence.
Sometimes it is suffering that prompts genius to achieve greatness.
I, of course, have not invented calculus today. Or even understood how to do calculus… I am pretty sure I was not Isaac Newton in any previous life.
I am probably not a genius,
Genius or not, I am definitely on the decline today.
I can’t think worth spit.
And it’s probably good that I misspelled the last word in the previous sentence.
But I do believe I have the ability to recover myself from depression. My mother is doing better than yesterday, though still in hospice care. And I can still get some writing done today in spite of the difficulties.
Onward and upward!
I will be looking for my next Everest… maybe tomorrow.
Last night my family and I went to the new Disney movie Jungle Book directed by John Favreau. It was the movie version I have been waiting for all my life.
The amazing thing about this movie is the way it took the book and layered its themes and central idea on top of the classic 60’s Disney cartoon. The music is still there and intact, though mostly moved to the end credits. The kid is still cute and mostly vulnerable, at least until the conclusion. And they have still given the Disneyesque comedic touch to the character of Baloo the bear, voiced by comedian Bill Murray in the this incarnation. But this is a live action movie and the kid-friendly Bowdlerization of the original story is a thing no longer.
A classic book illustration by E.J. Detmold
Fortunately for the young actor, Neel Sethi, they don’t require him to play the entire movie naked as would be required by a strictly by-the-book approach. They allow him the Disney-dignity of the cartoon red loin cover. But the sense of a human child facing the violence of the jungle naked, armed only with his creature-appropriate natural defenses, has been put back into the story. This version literally has teeth and claws. We see the boy’s body wounded and scarred during the course of his life in the jungle. And at a time of crucial confrontation, Mowgli takes the defense stolen from man village, a torch of the feared red flower, and throws it away into the water, facing the terrible tiger with only his wits and the abilities of his fangless, clawless human body. Thus, an essential theme I loved about the book when I was twelve is restored. Man has a place in the natural world even without the protections of civilization.
The story-telling is rich and nuanced, with multiple minor characters added. Gray Brother has been restored to Mowgli’s family. The fierce power of Mowgli’s wolf mother has been written back into the screenplay. And the character of Akela is given far more importance in the story than the cartoon could even contemplate. Although his role in aiding Mowgli to kill the tiger Shere Khan has been taken away from him, Akels’s death becomes the central motivation bringing Mowgli and Shere Khan together for the final inevitable confrontation. And this movie does not shy away from the reality of death as the cartoon did, resurrecting Baloo at the end and Kaa’s attempts to eat Mowgli being turned into a joke (though I would like to note if you have never read the book, Kaa is not supposed to be a villain. He was Mowgli’s wise and powerful friend in the book). Even the tiger survives in the cartoon version. This is no longer a cute cartoon story with a Disney sugared-up ending.
I will always treasure the 1960’s cartoon version. I saw it at the Cecil Theater in Mason City, Iowa when I was ten. I saw it with my mother and father and sisters and little brother. It was my favorite Disney movie of all time at that point in my life. I read and loved the book two years after that, a paperback copy that I bought with my own money from Scholastic book club back in 1968, in Mrs. Reitz’s sixth grade classroom. That copy is dog-eared, but still in my library. But this movie is the best thing that could possibly happen to bring all of that love of the story together and package it in a stunning visual experience.
My views on WordPress have been blowing up. Last week I had over 2,000 views for the first time ever in a single week. The primary culprit, a post about nudists called Nudist Notions. It had 465 views last week, almost a quarter of the total, although it got nary a single like.
Here’s a link if you’re interested in seeing what awful thing is in it that anonymous viewers are drawn to like flies.
I am not particularly worried about anyone using my post to do evil with it. The three pictures contain nothing that is lewd or pornographic. Two of the pictures are my own artwork containing an altered photograph and colored-pencil nudes that don’t show any body parts that would be considered completely private. The photo of a real nudist family making a sand-castle on the beach does not show their privates either.
The essay is basically about the publication of my book Superchicken which has nudist characters in it and recently got a five-star review from one of my nudist friends from Twitter. Neither the book or the post say anything particularly negative about nudists or nudism, so the viewing explosion is probably not due to nudists as they would like or comment as they have in the past. And if it’s a brewing backlash, I have no idea about what they are backlashing against
So, what do I have to worry about? Is it the Russians again, threatening to blackmail me by telling my wife that I am a nudist? She wasn’t happy about it the last time they called, even though she knew about my nudist tendencies from long ago. She just doesn’t like being called by Russians. Is it chickens planning to assassinate me for revealing the existence of Chicken-dance-Fu, the chosen combat style of chicken ninjas that think I was talking about them instead of the kind of chicken that has no feathers? Over 400 chickens were looking at my blog last week? Or maybe just the ones working for the FBI?
I suppose I should simply be happy that I am getting more views and as much as six cents of ad revenue per day on my blog. Jeez, the pennies are just rolling in.
Today I got the news I didn’t want to hear. My mother, who will be 87 in October, is no longer going to be able to keep going. Her kidneys are failing. So is her heart. If she goes on dialysis for her kidney function, her heart will give out. If we have her heart get the procedures she needs, her kidneys will do her in.
I do not fear death. Personally, I am at peace with the past, present, and the future. There is no reason to welcome death, but it is not a matter of grave concern to me.
I will not get a chance to be by my mother’s side when death comes for her. Like my father last year, she is slipping into a condition where she doesn’t know who or where she is, or who anybody around her is. So, I have to be able to live with my last words said to her that she understood were all in my goodbye when we left Iowa to come back to Texas back in July.
My own health is questionable.. It is a travel of more than 700 miles with both ends of the journey in States where Delta Coronavirus is raging out of control. So, just like my father a year ago, I may not even be able to attend her funeral.
But love is stronger than death. I may not get to tell her I love her and have her understand me before she is gone. But she already knows. We all know where our heart is and where it came from. And mine came from hers.
I was a comic book nut from a very early age. I started collecting comics in 1966 when I was ten years old. Almost as soon as I started collecting them, I began copying the drawings, copying Spiderman, Hawkeye, Captain America, Avengers, and Batman. I am a comic book lover, and I am also a comic book plagiarist. But I promise to use my own artwork and photographs to illustrate this blog post. After all, I am illustrating being a copy cat.
Cosmic Boy, Saturn Girl, and Lightning Lad in the style of artist Curt Swan in 1962.
My parents didn’t approve of kids with comic books. I desperately wanted Spiderman comic books and Avengers comic books, like the ones I read in the barbershop every time I was waiting for a haircut. But they had gotten wind of Frederic Wertham’s campaign against comic books two years before I was even born. The learned psychiatrist insisted that comic books corrupted children with sexual images hidden in the artwork (oh, gawd, look where Saturn Girl’s hands are… close anyway), Batman and Robin were homosexuals trying to influence young boys to be gay, Wonder Woman was a lesbian who was into bondage. This he said in 1954, but it didn’t really reach my parents’ ears in rural Iowa for another 12 years. The result was severe limits on my comic book ownership possibilities. But Superboy and the Legion of Super-Heroes were acceptable, as were Casper the Friendly Ghost and Scrooge McDuck.
So, my copy above of Curt Swan’s work is from the Legion of Superheroes. Superman was boy-scout enough to qualify too. I could get by with Tarzan even though he was a mostly naked guy running around the jungles. And time and money solve a lot of problems. I was allowed to subscribe to Avengers and X-men and the Amazing Spiderman once I had field-work money to put towards it. I drew lots of comic book heroes from that point onwards.
I learned how to draw men with unhealthy amounts of muscles, women with waists that would break in two with the amount of breastly boobage a teenage boy would pack on top, and numerous people who actually seemed to think capes made sense as a fashion statement. I also learned how to do shading in pen and ink and foreshortening from master artists like John Romita Jr. and George Perez and Barry Windsor-Smith. And I would be remiss if I didn’t give proper credit to Murphy Anderson and Jack “King” Kirby. I know you don’t know who those people are because you are not the comic book nut I am… nobody is. But believe me, they are masters of an American Art form. And I will never be one of them, because even though I am almost as good as some of them, I chose to be a teacher instead of being a comic book artist, a thing I could’ve so easily succeeded at back in the 1980’s. You should know this too… I have never regretted making that choice.
My sister called last night to tell me that this time, when she went into the hospital for her chronic heart problem, she would not be coming out again.
She is 87 years old, just half a year younger than when we lost her mother at 88. And at almost 65 it is not unreasonable to believe that I have to expect to lose my mother sooner rather than later. But I am still not ready to lose my mother.
See this ugly little hairy mushroom-guy? This is Murky Deepends. I started drawing him as a teenager. I needed to see him face to face… because I was a survivor of a sexual assault. I started drawing him after the phone call that kept me from killing myself.
And this picture of him that I drew today is the only picture of him that I still have. I may have drawn hundreds over the years. I drew him to tear up the picture, or burn the picture, or soak it in water and flush it down the toilet.
Murky is my depression.
And before I could use him as an illustration for this piece, I had to make sure I put a black box around him. No way can I ever let him escape again to grow and take over my life one more time. I cannot let him win.
I know he looks kind of sad and pitiful. But don’t feel sorry for him. He’s a stone cold killer. And if you look at him carefully enough, you may detect a smile on his face.
I am sad now about my mother. But it is okay to be sad. I lost my father less than a year ago. During the pandemic lockdown. I did not get to see him before he died. I did not get to attend his funeral.
My fear is that the same thing will happen now with Mom. I have no way to safely get to Iowa again. The pandemic is raging again in both Texas and Iowa with the Delta variant. My sister is the only one who can get into see her and be with her according to hospital Covid rules. (Mom does not have Covid. Only a weak and failing heart.)
And it is okay to feel sad. I have earned the right to be sad through 63 and three quarters years of love and devotion.
And Murky has no place in my sadness. Murky is depression. Not a feeling like sadness, but an absence of feeling, a numbness and incapacitation. So, I will keep him in a box or destroy him completely. I will get through this with the rest of my family, and Murky will not have any power over me.
I just got back from a walk and while I was out, the sun peaked through the clouds for the first time since Saturday. Which is strange because this is sunbaked Texas. For the last five or six years we have been getting way more summer rains than we did for two decades previous. The forecast for this week originally was 70% chance rain on Monday, and sunshine for the rest of the week.
Unfortunately, the sun has stopped shining in more than one way. I got word today that my mother in Iowa is in the hospital again with more heart trouble. Dark clouds hang over our house at the moment for that reason… metaphorically speaking. I am not in good health myself. That 750-mile trip is hard on me. We just got back from the trip to Iowa less than three weeks ago.
But we shall persevere for as long as we can. And hopefully the sun will come out yet again.
Buckminster Fuller is an intellectual hero of mine. As he said in the video, if you bothered to watch it, “I was told I had to get a job and make money, but would you rather be making money, or making sense?” Bucky was always a little bit to the left of center, and basically in the farthest corner of the outfield. That’s why we depend so much on him in times like these when the ball is being hit to the warning track. (I know the world doesn’t really work on baseball metaphors any more, but my life has always been about metaphors from 1964 with the St. Louis Cardinals playing and beating the New York Yankees. Mantle was on their side, but Maris was playing for us.) You have to live in the world that fits into your own mental map of reality. And if you’ve been whacked on the side of the head one too many times… it changes the way you think. You begin to think differently.
If you don’t know who Bucky is, as you probably don’t because he revolutionized the world in the 60’s and died in the 1980’s, Richard Buckminster “Bucky” Fuller was an American architect, systems theorist, author, designer, and inventor. He is credited with the invention of the Geodesic Dome. But he was so much more than that. He wanted to build things that made better sense, in a practical sort of way, than the way we actually do them. He built geodesic homes because he felt a home should maximize space and use of materials and minimize costs and amounts of materials as well as environmental impacts. He is the one who popularized the notion of “Spaceship Earth”. He wrote and published more than thirty books, and gave us a variety of truly wise insights. He promoted the concept of synergy. He said, “Don’t fight forces, use them.” He also pointed out, “Ninety per cent of who you are is invisible and untouchable.” He was a man full of quotes useful for internet memes.
So, lets consider an example from the mixed up mind of Mickey;
Here are three dolls from the Planet of the Apes part of my doll collection. (Two different movies are represented here, the 1968 original, and the Tim Burton 2001 remake.)
The world we now live in is increasingly like the movie, The Planet of the Apes. In that film the world the astronauts set down upon is ruled by talking apes. The human beings in that film are relegated to the fields and forests where they are no more than speechless animals. Much like the Republican Party and the wealthy ruling elite of this day and age, the apes control everything and, led by Dr. Zaius (seen on the far right) reject science and evidence as a way to explain things. They rely on the rules set down by the Lawgiver in much the same way that modern day Republicans swear by the U.S. Constitution to determine the truth of all things.
Here we see the apes capturing and enslaving Marky Mark… er… Mark Wahlberg rather than Chuck Heston from the original movie.
In the original set of movies, Charleton Heston, playing the astronaut Taylor, discovers that through hatred and warring, the human beings of Earth have bombed themselves back into the stone age and enabled the evolved apes to take over. How does Mr. Heston deal with that problem? He discovers an old doomsday device and blows up the world. Chuck Heston has always approved Second Amendment solutions to modern problems, so it is no wonder that he lays waste to everything, the good and the bad. I think we can see that old orangutan-man, Donald Trump doing exactly the same things now as he runs for President, or Great Ape, or whatever…
In both the previous series, and the current remake, salvation from the rule of the monkey people comes in the form of a leader among the apes. Caesar, whether he be played by Roddy MacDowell or by Andy Serkis, is able to solve the problems of apes and men by reaching out to those of the other species, assigning them value, and ultimately doing what helps everyone to survive and live together. Diversity is power and provides a workable solution through cooperation. The forces of hatred and fear are the things that must be overcome and threaten the existence of everyone. Donald Trump needs to learn from the lesson of The Planet of the Apes, and be less like General Ursus. We need Bernie Sanders to embrace the role of Caesar and show us how we can get along with our Muslim brothers… after all, they are more like us than the apes are, and Caesar builds bridges between apes and men.
So, there you have it, my attempt to build a new model based on an old movie… or on the remake… whichever you prefer. And if that doesn’t work, well, there’s always…
I got word yesterday from my sister that Mom is in the hospital again. She went to the hospital emergency room in the middle of the night Friday night. There they found concerning enzymes in her bloodwork.
Today I got another call. She was transferred to the cardiology unit in Mason City in the middle of the night last night.
They are going to go in with a camera and look around her heart for whatever blockages are causing the troubles and putting in stints wherever they are needed.
A year ago my father fell ill. He had a stroke caused by Parkinson’s Disease last July. He died in November on my birthday.
I know what to expect. She will not pass away at this time. But she is 86. She lost the man she was married to for over 60 years. I have other relatives who died shortly after losing their spouse, their one true love. I have to be prepared.
And, of course, a little bit of me will die too. We are not immortal. But our lives were good lives, full of love, and we will have lost nothing by reaching the end. It is not the destination. It is the journey that is all-important.
There are many, many things I appreciate about other people’s artwork. It is not all a matter of envy or a desire to copy what they’ve done, stealing their techniques and insights for myself, though there is some of that. Look at the patterns Hergé uses to portray fish and undersea plants. I have shamelessly copied both. But it is more than just pen-and-ink burglary.
I like to be dazzled. I look for things other artists have done that pluck out sweet-sad melodies on the heartstrings of my of my artistically saturated soul. I look for things like the color blue in the art of Maxfield Parrish.
I love the mesmerizing surrealism of Salvador Dali.
I am fascinated by William-Adolphe Bouguereau’s ability to create photo-realistic and creamy-perfect nudes.
Basil Wolverton’s comic grotesqueries leave me stunned but laughing.
The dramatic lighting effects employed by Greg Hildebrandt slay me with beauty. (Though not literally. I am not bleeding and dying from looking at this picture, merely metaphorically cut to the heart.)
I even study closely movie-poster portraits like Bogart and Bergman in this Casablanca classic poster.
I could show you so many more art pieces that I dearly love to look at. But I will end with a very special artist.
This is the work of my daughter, Mina “the Princess” Beyer. Remember that name. She’s better than I am.
Catch a Falling Star 
Other Folks’ Artwork
There are many, many things I appreciate about other people’s artwork. It is not all a matter of envy or a desire to copy what they’ve done, stealing their techniques and insights for myself, though there is some of that. Look at the patterns Hergé uses to portray fish and undersea plants. I have shamelessly copied both. But it is more than just pen-and-ink burglary.
I like to be dazzled. I look for things other artists have done that pluck out sweet-sad melodies on the heartstrings of my of my artistically saturated soul. I look for things like the color blue in the art of Maxfield Parrish.
I love the mesmerizing surrealism of Salvador Dali.
I am fascinated by William-Adolphe Bouguereau’s ability to create photo-realistic and creamy-perfect nudes.
Basil Wolverton’s comic grotesqueries leave me stunned but laughing.
The dramatic lighting effects employed by Greg Hildebrandt slay me with beauty. (Though not literally. I am not bleeding and dying from looking at this picture, merely metaphorically cut to the heart.)
I even study closely movie-poster portraits like Bogart and Bergman in this Casablanca classic poster.
I could show you so many more art pieces that I dearly love to look at. But I will end with a very special artist.
This is the work of my daughter, Mina “the Princess” Beyer. Remember that name. She’s better than I am.
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Tagged as Saturday Art Day