Random Thoughts Typed on a New Computer

My old computer finally gets a rest in its old age. I went out and spent some of my farm income on a new computer. It is a Chromebook laptop. I can hear the groans from readers already. Yes, it has all the drawbacks of a Chromebook computer with the added negative that I have to learn a whole new operating system. I got spoiled by Windows 10 on the last two laptops. And I can’t store my usual plethora of images and documents directly on the Chromebook’s limited harddrive.

Oh, well! The Arizona Cardinals are winning again. They have the best record in the NFL right now at 10 wins, 2 losses. And star players Kyler Murray and DeAndre Hopkins are both returned from injuries. And Colt McCoy proved he was a superior back-up quarterback while Murray was out. Either some really good things or a huge disappointment lie directly ahead. You know me. I am preparing already for the playoff loss in the first round.

I am enjoying the new work-in-progress. The Necromancer’s Apprentice is really flowing and coming together in amazing ways. It is possible that the fairy pictured above is actually helping me write it. But as I reread each chapter, it definitely sounds like me. So, she must be doing a really good job of imitating my style while, at the same time, typing with her feet..

My sisters and I

My two sisters and I have got the farm paperwork pretty much under control. My sister Nancy is now retired and living on the farm place that my great grandfather established in the 1860’s. It is a joint ownership between me, Nancy, and Mary. The productive farmland is being farmed by a local farmer who needs to grow more crops to make ends meet than his own farmland provides. So, we get to collect rent, own the family farm, and help feed the world with corn and soybeans.

I continue to roll Moosewinkles at bowling pins and knock enough of them down to win at Moose Bowling… for now. You never know what tomorrow will bring. Maybe Moosewinkles guilty of over-eating, or bowling pins made of concrete.

Moose Bowling

Life is like Moose Bowling. In order to knock down all the pins and win, you have to learn how to throw a moose. (Yes, that’s what it says in the cartoon above.)

So, it is good to have a new computer. I wrote this post with fewer glitches to repair and curse words to shout than I have with any other post in the last five years. Life is good again. At least, for now.

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Aliens Among Us

Now, in older age, I am beginning to understand the life and work of Stephen Hawking better than ever before. I mean, he ended his life completely unable to move by his own muscle power, but his mind traveled light years and saw things that most of us can’t even begin to understand. My own muscle power is decreasing. Arthritis is confining me more and more to sitting on my bed with my laptop being my means of exploring the universe. That and the power of my imagination (a puny little thing compared to Hawking’s massive one.)

Artist’s interpretation of the Epsilon Eridani System.

http://www.sci-news.com/astronomy/epsilon-eridani-system-04831.html

https://www.discovermagazine.com/the-sciences/system-of-super-earths-discovered-around-a-nearby-star

The truth is, one of my irrational religious beliefs is that we are not alone in the universe. First of all, there are definitely planets of earth-like composition, size, and position around two neighboring sun-like stars. The two articles I linked to above give you some insight about what we currently know about Epsilon Eridani and Tau Ceti.

Now, information like that goes automatically into my mental salad bowl of imagination where it gets mixed with vegetables of prior learning and gets covered by the salad dressing of fiction-generating speculation (which tastes like spicy Italian.)

So, here’s some prior learning salted with speculations.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Allan_Hills_84001

Yes, you probably recognize it. There was a Martian meteor found in the Arctic that had in it structures that look amazingly like fossilized bacteria. I know that you can say with some conviction that it hasn’t been generally accepted by science that these are indeed fossilized lifeforms from Mars. But it also has not been proven that are ordinary geological formations, and scientists do generally agree that the Allan Hills 84001 meteorite is actually blasted off the surface of Mars in the distant past. I can’t summarize easily the geological proof of that fact, but you can certainly do the research online yourself.

So the syllogism goes like this;

  1. Life is not only possible but probable elsewhere in the universe.
  2. Epsilon Eridani and Tau Ceti are both places where there are probable places conducive to evolving life.
  3. Therefore those two planetary neighbors in our galactic neighborhood are highly likely to have life. And if they have life, they may also have intelligent life like us.

Because of what the former Israeli space security chief said about a Galactic Federation of aliens recently, I searched out and watched a video by Linda Moulton Howe (the formerly award-winning ecological journalist who is now labelled a “kook” because she turned her attention to UFOs after doing a documentary about cattle mutilations in the Southwest.) In this video, an Anonymous video that I could not share here for the usual reasons, Howe went over a transcript of a briefing Ronald Reagan got from CIA chief William Casey in which they discussed what Majestic 12 knew about alien visitors. They were explicit about the EBEs we made contact with as a result of the two Roswell crashes of 1947. They come from a twin-sun system called Zeta Reticuli. And they acquainted us with at least three other extraterrestrial peoples who are now and long-time have been visiting Earth. One of those is a potentially hostile race believed to be from Epsilon Eridani.

Now, of course, like any religious belief, I can’t prove anything except by faith. Although, based on a large number of events, investigations, and anomalous artifacts, there is probably more proof of my beliefs than there are that Jesus was real. But, consider this, they always point out that if the government was trying to keep this secret from us… well, the government is really bad at keeping secrets. So, where are the aliens?

Well, Nixon showed them to Jackie Gleason in the 1970s.

The government hasn’t kept any secrets very well. Not the U-2, not the SR-71 Blackbird, not the Stealth Fighter… not even the Manhattan Project which the Russians duplicated within a decade. The Roswell crash, the Travis Walton abduction, Eisenhower’s 1950s meeting with aliens at Holliman Air Force Base, all of these things are documented and witnessed to by enough journalists, physicists, soldiers, government officials, deathbed confessions, and whistle-blowers to not be easy to dismiss as lunacy.

So, I say again, I am convinced we are not alone in the universe. I also think they are here already and the government knows that. I have seen UFOs more times than I have fingers, though I know most of them belong to our government. I live in Texas, the home of military air-bases and more nuclear plants than is comfortable. I am not saying I can prove anything. If I could, it would already probably be censored by now and you wouldn’t be reading this. Lying to the public is one thing the government is really good at.

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Don’t Think Too Much

These days my head works overtime, filling itself up with memories, fears, complicated notions, and problems that need to be solved.

Today I need to uncomplicate the clutter in the entryway to the thinking room (what you might call a study) in the quaint little labyrinth of my stupidly dense and moronic, overworked little mind.

Today I am simply going to re-compose my 1965 letter to Santa to ask for things I should’ve wanted, rather than the junk I asked for.

Rock ’em Sock ’em Robots! Yes! Those would help me relieve that 9-year-old’s stress I earned by a foolish insistance on spelling words the way they sounded instead of the way that would get it right on Miss Mennenga’s spelling tests.

Punching things more might’ve made it easier to cope with a 9-year-old life.

But there are things in the 1965 Monkey Ward’s Christmas Catalog I saw, and maybe would’ve played with more than the G.I. Joe junk I was obsessed with, and would’ve been better for me in the long run. The rubber G.I. Joe scuba suit I got that Christmas melted a couple of years later in the box I was keeping it in when I left it on the back window ledge of the 1961 Ford Fairlane. I could’ve tried…

Gumby, dammit!

He wouldn’t have melted. He would’ve simply galvanized into a brick-hard substance that would never bend again, the way my little sister’s red Gumby did a couple of years later. Maybe a brick hard green Gumby couldn’t have been played with either. But it would’ve been useful for throwing at sisters when I was mad.

And I could’ve gotten my own Barbie and Ken.

Then I wouldn’t have had to borrow my sister’s dolls to look at them naked and marvel at how much they didn’t look like real people naked. Or practice making hangmen’s nooses from bright-colored yarn, sentence them to hang by the neck from the bottom rails of the upper bunk, and blame it all on my little brother. (Really he should get all the credit anyway, since he and my littlest sister actually got caught doing it the first time by my other sister, and I just stole the whole idea from him.)

I definitely could’ve learned more about the world of 3-D cartoon characters if I’d gotten one of these. In fact, we, the four of us kids, did get one two Christmases later. I know a heckuva lot about 3-D Woody Woodpecker, looking at those six discs a thousand times each.

And building toys like these kept us fascinated for hours.

And we argued for hours more whenever Mickey built a helicopter or a submarine or a windmill that he didn’t want the other three to take apart again to build something else.

This thing was great at teaching patience and focus. You wouldn’t believe how easily the pen would slip, or the little gear teeth wouldn’t mesh properly. The few bad words I actually knew in 1967 got practiced too often for these very reasons. It would be two more years in the future that we got one of these to share too.

In 1965, Dear Santa, you should’ve thought more about how to train an evil little mind than how to make a little G.I. Joe-obsessed boy happy.

Although, you sure did get it right in 1966 with that Mercury Capsule for G.I. Joe.

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The Necromancer’s Apprentice… Canto 10

Derfentwinkle’s Headache

Once Master Eli placed the Magic Hat on my head, I immediately felt something probing deeply into my brain.  It wasn’t some passive little look-see either.  It was a painfully grinding drilling sensation that caused a massive pain between my eyes.

“Ah, you have been abused, child,” said a voice from within the hat.  “You must forgive me, but I will have to remove the life-draining sex spells and take away your memories of Kronomarke’s insidious abuse.”

“Help yourself,” I silently told the voice in my head with my own voice in my head.

The memories of the naked necromancer hitting me and harming me began to dry up, shrivel, and disappear from my conscious memory.  I was not unhappy to see them float away into darkness.

But I was no longer seeing the room in the Sorcerer’s Tower where I knew I physically still was.  Instead, around me there was little beyond darkness.

Then the darkness parted and a glowing white stag, a white male deer with an eighteen-point rack of horns and an extremely regal bearing walked up to me.  Towered over me, in fact.

“Child, speak your name.”  He spoke directly into my head without any lips moving or obvious speech forming in his deer mouth.

“But that will give you power over me.”

“I already have that.  I am here to help you, not do you further harm.”

“I am Derfentwinkle the lowly necromancer’s fifth apprentice.  But who are you?”

“I am what you might call a demigod.  I was the master and teacher of the wizard Dezmodotto.  And I am the friend of Eli Tragedy.  If you must name me, I am called Father of Many Erlkings.”

“That’s impressive.”

“I have no need to impress you.  I am only here to help you.”

“How will you do that?”

“I have already cleansed your memory of most of the badness that Kronomarke has taught you.  He is an evil man.  You must not return to him.  I will make certain that you continue to belong to Master Eli.”

“Like a slave?”

“Like a daughter.  And I will give him to you as a father.”

I was stunned.  No one had ever been so kind before.  And his voice filled me with warmth and confidence.  It would be right because Father… of Many Erlkings, made it so.

“Is Eli Tragedy really magical?”

“You ask because your magic intuitions tell you most of his magical effects are really Slow-One science and technology disguised as sorcery.  You are a true wizard, and Eli is a very clever manipulator of many things.”

“Um, yes, I… guess so…”

“You must listen to him well and learn his ways.  They will make you stronger.”

“Yes, okay…”

“And I sent the crows Homer and Bert to be your familiar… one of the two, at any rate.”

“Why full-sized crows?”

“You will need to ride them as steeds in the air.  And they can be quite entertaining, those two.”

“And what is it that I feel you have put into my head?”

“Spells, beloved.  Spells to keep you and yours safe.  And help along the quest I must give you.”

“What are these spells you speak of?”

“You will need to discuss them with the apprentice Bob.  He is known to me as a very wise and capable young man.  He will transcribe them on parchment for you so that you may learn them in the way of non-necromantic wizards.”

“Can you tell me now what the spells are?  By name?”

“The ones I am allowing you to keep from your necromantic training are the Ghost-Light Spell, The Turning Spell of the Undead, and the reverse of the Harming Spell, which in your hands will instead be a Healing Spell.”

“And the ones I don’t already know?”

The Spell of Gingerbread Summoning, The Fairy-Resizing Spell, the Spell of Water-Breathing, the Alter Shape Spell, The Spell of Slow-One Summoning, The Witch-Armor Spell of Zam the Leaf-Witch, and the Spell of Storybook Summoning.  These will go into your spell-book as Bob helps you translate and write it.”

“Why am I worthy to be treated in this way by a demigod?  I came here to kill the fairies of Cair Tellos.”

“That is why you were sent here, but it is not why you came here and fell into the care of Eli Tragedy.”

“Thank you, Father…”

I felt faint.  Everything changed around me.

“Um, I am not feeling well,” I said.  “Can I lie down and sleep a little?”

I fell into someone’s arms and I was lost in the softness of deep sleep.

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The Fire Grows Hotter

I was forced to admit he was President of the United States for four long, long, extra-long years. And I am no longer mentioning his actual name in the same paragraph with the actual title of President. He is that, officially, no more. And he never was that as far as I can see by the actual job requirements.

But he did not get shot or lynched during the failed coup. And they did not execute him as a traitor afterwards… or even remove him from office. It is possible that he could even be back as President in 2024. But the criminal overripe mango with the badly thatched straw roof is guilty as hell of ruining our country.

He broke everything. The vaccines appeared so fast for Covid 19 that it could have been as miraculous as Obama’s cutting off of the Ebola outbreak that we never lost control of. Remember that? Probably not. The Ebola outbreak was controlled by s system developed by both Presidents George W Bush and Barack Obama. ;It was a seriously-tested and proven playbook that the Cheetoh-powdered clown threw in the trash.

He totally mishandled the pandemic, resulting in over 700,000 deaths in this country alone. Soon to be over 800,000. And his propaganda ministers on FOX News killed my cousin with Covid by convincing her she wasn’t properly loyal to Cinnamon Hitler if she got vaccinated.

My classmate Tim, a Navy veteran and retired firefighter died two days after Karen from the same thing. I couldn’t convince Tim that the Orange Menace was a bad guy. Pumpkinhead convinced him it was completely okay to hate Muslims, Africans, Middle-Easterners, and other people who are the wrong color or religion. He also convinced Tim that he should hate intellectual elites, liberals, and college-educated snowflakes… in other words, people like me.

Texas Governor Costello-Less Abbott

And now that the Big Stinky Cheese Man in Mar-a-Lago has made it publicly acceptable to be totally hate-filled and actively punish those you hate, there are others who have taken up the belching cannons of hatred and have begun to fire at will.

Black Lives Matter and ANTIFA are the terrorist threat to be exterminated, and teens like Rittenhouse can now legally take up their beloved AR-15s and go hunt them. The KKK and the Proud Boys are made up of the “good people on both sides.” Let them have their way.

The problem is CRT being taught in schools. Critical Race Theory is a law-school study of structural racism that is NOT taught in any public schools. But it is the reason that Dr. James Whitfield, the first black principal in Texas Colleyville High School’s history was fired. He apparently was teaching CRT by saying in an email that George Floyd’s death was a bad thing.

Books like Nobel-Winner Toni Morrison’s Beloved have to be banned and removed from school library shelves because it makes white kids feel bad about slavery. Apparently everything will be better if white students aren’t made to think about race and slavery and human cruelty, and apparently we shouldn’t be teaching black kids about it either. No more Walter Dean Myers, no more poet Langston Hughes. No more Maya Angelou. All we can learn from them is shame in ourselves, not empathy for the tragic histories of others. (I must remind you that I am a white guy being sarcastic here. I love these authors and their works, and I would sooner die than see them burned.)

Florida Governor Ron DeSaniflush

Right now the Democrats control the government tentatively and are trying to fix all the things Republicans managed to break in just four long, long, super-long years. They will probably have some limited success and be voted out in the midterms for their trouble. Then the hatred will be ramped up even more. The flames will lick higher in the atmosphere. And snowflakes like me will reach the limit and be melted. You are free to laugh at me for being wrong again, Tim. Yeah, I know… from Heaven or wherever else firefighters and heroes go in the end.

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Living in the Spider Kingdom

Life seems to be getting harder and harder. And I realize that a big part of that perception is the fact that my health is deteriorating quickly. This is a humor blog, but it has been getting more and more serious and more and more grim as the grim reaper becomes more and more a central character in my own personal story.

My perception of reality, however, is best explained by a passage in a novel that spoke to me in college. It comes from the novel, the Bildungsroman by Thomas Mann called Der Zauberberg, in English, The Magic Mountain. In the scene, Hans Castorp is possibly freezing to death, and he hallucinates a pastoral mountainside scene where children are happily playing in the sunshine. Possibly Heaven? But maybe not. As he goes into a stone building and finds a passage down into the ground, he sees wrinkled, ugly, horrible hags gathered around a child’s corpse, eating it. And this vision explains the duality at the center of the meaning of life.

For every good thing, there is an equal and opposite bad thing that balances it our. There is no understanding of what perfection and goodness mean without knowing profanity and evil. Just as you can’t understand hot without cold nor light without darkness. And you don’t get to overturn the way it is. You try your hardest to stay on the heads side of the coin knowing that half the time life falls to tails.

So, what good does it do me to think about and write about things like this? Well, it makes for me a sort of philosophical gyroscope that spins and dances and helps me keep my balance in the stormy sea of daily life. I deal with hard things with humor and a sense of literary irony. I make complex metaphors that help me throw a rope around the things that hurt me.

We are living now in the Spider Kingdom. Hard times are here again. The corrupt and corpulent corporate spiders are spinning the many webs we are trapped in. As metaphorical as it is, we wouldn’t have the government we currently have and be suffering the way we are if that weren’t true.

But no bad thing nor no good thing lasts forever. The wheel goes round and round. The top of the wheel reaches the bottom just as often as the bottom returns to the top. So, it will all pass if we can only hold out long enough.

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I am Made of Words

Yes, I was an English teacher. So, I was charged with teaching children, both exceedingly clever and oppressively stupid, including every child in between the extremes. how to read and to write in English. Words are my profession. Words are, in fact, my world.

I’m sure you realize that the title is a metaphor, and in no way literal. But now, as a retired senior on Medicare, my parents are both gone, I lost two cousins to Covid this last week, both of whom refused to be vaccinated because they were Republican FOX News watchers in ultra-conservative Iowa; I have six incurable diseases or conditions that I will have until I die. My zombie-skin is all peeling off. My prostate has gone from softball-sized to giant grapefruit. And eating is a diabetic nightmare now. My favorite foods will all kill me with knives of brain pain.

So, my physical life is all about deterioration and decay now. I have no happy days if you have to gauge happiness by lack of pain and surpluses of ease and things to be grateful for.

No, my world now is mostly interior in nature. Memories of the cherished past. Imaginary worlds I have built up all in my head over time. And re-imagining of the events of my past to make them more palatable and less filled with regret.

And so, I am made of words. I live in the stories I write, whether it is a story about my cousin’s recent passing on here, or a story about three-inch-tall fairies who’ve built a castle out of a willow tree with magic in my novel-in-progress.

I define myself and my life with words. And I am fortunate enough to be able to do it with some skill, learned over the decades of telling stories to kids in an English classroom.

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Made-Up People

Orben 1.jpg

I often get criticized for talking to people who are basically invisible, probably imaginary, and definitely not real people, no matter what else they may be.

The unfinished cover picture is from the novel The Bicycle-Wheel Genius which I finished the final rewrite and edit for and then published in 2018.  All of the characters in that book are fictional.    Even though some of them strongly resemble the real people who inspired me to create them, they are fictional people doing fictional and sometimes impossible things.  And yet, they are all people who I have lived with as walking, talking, fictional people for many years.  Most of those people have been talking to me since the 1970’s.  I know some of them far better than any of the real people who are a part of my life.

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These, of course, are only a few of my imaginary friends.  Some I spend time with a lot.  Some I haven’t seen or heard from in quite a while.  And I do know they are not real people.  Mandy is a cartoon panda bear, and Anneliese is a living gingerbread cookie.  I do understand I made these people up in my stupid little head.

But it seems to me that the people in the world around us are really no less imaginary, ephemeral, and unreal.  Look at the recently replaced Presidentumb of the Disunited States.  He is an evil cartoon James Bond villain if there ever was one.

Animated cast of OUR CARTOON PRESIDENT. Photo: Courtesy of SHOWTIME

Animated cast of OUR CARTOON PRESIDENT. Photo: Courtesy of SHOWTIME

People in the real world create an imaginary person in their own stupid little heads, and pretend real hard that that imaginary person is really them in real life.  And of course, nobody sees anybody else in the same way that they see themselves.  Everybody thinks they are a somebody who is different from anybody else who thinks they are a somebody too, and really they are telling themselves, and each other, lies about who somebody really is, and it is all very confusing, and if you can follow this sentence, you must be a far better reader than I am a writer, because none of it really makes sense to me.  I think everybody is imaginary in some sense of the word.

Millis 2

So, if you happen to see me talking to a big white rabbit-man who used to be a pet white rabbit, but got changed into a rabbit-man through futuristic genetic science and metal carrots, don’t panic and call the police.  I am just talking to another fictional character from a book I finished writing.  And why are you looking inside my head, anyway?  There’s an awful lot of personal stuff going on in there.  Of course, you only see that because I wrote about it in this essay.  So it is not an invasion of privacy.  It is just me writing down stuff I probably should keep in my own stupid little head.  My bad.

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Filed under characters, colored pencil, commentary, goofy thoughts, humor, novel plans, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, rabbit people, strange and wonderful ideas about life

Story Illustrations on Art Day

One of the things I am increasingly doing is illustrating my novels and essays in the pages of books published on Amazon.

As you can see, Amazon allows me to use my own artwork on the covers as well as illustrations inside. I-Universe would allow neither.
This is the most recent illustration from my as-yet unpublished novel, The Necromancer’s Apprentice.

More from the work-in-progress, The Necromancers Apprentice;

Yes, they’re naked, but that’s because they are Sylphs (3-inch-tall fairies,) not human beings.

What follows are published illustrations;

Recipes for Gingerbread Children

Horatio T. Dogg
Horatio T. Dogg
Cissy Moonskipper’s Travels

One of the glorious things about ebooks is the fact that they allow colored illustrations which will print as black and white in the paperback version.

Cissy Moonskipper’s Travels
The Wizard in his Keep
A Field Guide to Fauns

These, of course, are only a small sampling of the many illustrations in my books, especially the more recent books.

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I Hope You Dance…

When you walk to the front of the classroom and take up the big pencil in front of a group of young teens and twelve-year-olds, there is a strong pressure to learn how to sing and dance. That, of course, is a metaphor. I was always too arthritic and clunky in my movements to literally dance. But I looked out over a sea of bored and malevolence-filled eyes, slack and sometimes drooling mouths attached to hormone-fueled and creatively evil minds. And I was being paid to put ideas in their heads. Specifically boring and difficult ideas that none of them really wanted in their own personal heads. So I felt the need to learn to dance, to teach in ways that were engaging like good dance tunes, and entertaining in ways that made them want to take action, to metaphorically get up and dance along with me.

I wanted them to enjoy learning the way I did.

But the music of the teacher is not always compatible with the dance style of the individual learner. The secret behind that is, there is absolutely no way to prompt them to dance along with you until you learn about the music already playing in their stupid little heads. (And you can’t, of course ever use the word “stupid” out loud, no matter how funny or true the word is,) You have to get to know a kid before you can teach them anything.

The discordant melodies and bizarre tunes you encounter when you talk to them is like dancing in a minefield blindfolded. Some don’t have enough to eat at home and have to survive off of the nutrition-less food they get in the school cafeteria’s free-and-reduced lunch program. Some of them have never heard a single positive thing from the adults at home, enduring only endless criticism, insults, and sometimes fists. Some of them fall in love with you. Some due to hormones. Some due to the fact that you treat them like a real human being. Some because they just stupidly assume that everyone dances to the same tunes they hear in their own personal head.

Some of them automatically hate you because they know that if you hear their own secret music in their own self-loathing heads, you will never accept it. They hate you because you are a teacher and teachers always hate them. Some of them, deep down, are as loathsome as they think they are.

But, if you find the right music, you can get any of them, even all of them, to dance. It might be hard to find. It might be a nearly impossible task to learn to play that music once you find it. But it can be done.

And if you get them to dance to your music, to dance along with you, I can’t think of anything more rewarding, anything more life-fulfilling. Have you ever tried it for yourself? If you are not a teacher, how about with your own children or the children related to you? Everybody should learn to dance this dance I am talking about in metaphors. At least once in your life. It is addictive. You will want to dance more. So the next time the music starts and you get the chance… I hope you’ll dance!

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