Yes, this cartoon illustration shows how we drive in Texas. Of course, it all moves much faster than this in real life. I hope to get my car out of the shop this weekend so I can start outrunning high-speed alligators on Texas roads once again.
How the Story Ends
How the Story Ends (a poem of sour grapes)
This is how the story ends…
When fox plus grapes make themes.
It tells you all the grapes are sour…
So give up on your dreams.
But that is not the fox I know…
At least, not how it seems.
The fox who knew the little Prince
Knew love will live in dreams.
The fox I know would think of ways
To live and work in teams
He’d find a farmer, kind and large,
And share with him the dreams.
The fox would learn to plant and grow
Grape seeds in warm sunbeams,
He’d tend and also harvest
And then he’d have his dreams.
And so, when thinking the story ends,
And not accepting themes
Remember that stories never end
If you don’t deny your dreams.
Filed under Paffooney, poem, poetry, strange and wonderful ideas about life
Aeroquest… Nocturne 3
Nocturne 3 – At the Community Bath
Junior Aero was relaxing in the hot bathing pool in the Palace of One Thousand Years. The concept of community baths was definitely new to him, but he had seen so many changes in his short life that he could get used to anything quickly. The warm salty water felt good on muscles made to ache by Ged’s intense martial arts training. His small body was not meant for such vigorous exercise. Still, anything that Ged taught was the word of God to Junior Aero. He needed Ged to believe that he was to be Ged’s faithful disciple.
Across the patterned mosaic tiles of blue and white walked young Sara Smith. She came directly towards Junior wearing nothing more than a towel around her neck and a sweet, shy smile on her face. She was lovely with golden-peach skin and brown eyes like a doe in the forest.
“Umm… uh… I’m naked here,” warned Junior.
“I know. I’m naked too.”
“Aren’t you supposed to bathe somewhere else when I’m here?”
“No. I came to bathe with you because I like you and want to get to know you.”
Her open-faced charm was irresistible. Junior was still too young for this boy-girl bathing to be too dangerous. He decided it would do no good to protest.
“I’m curious,” said Sara, “does a blue-skinned boy have a blue penis? Stand up and let me see?”
Junior was astonished. “Doesn’t anything embarrass you?”
“Why should it? I’ve been bathing in public baths all my life. I’m used to seeing humanoid bodies with no clothes on. Besides, I like how your body looks. I will probably marry you when we both get older.”
Junior shrugged. He stood up in the knee-deep water and offered his hand to Sara Smith. She took hold and drew herself up close to him. Together they settled down in the warm water.
“What’s he like? Your White Spider, I mean?”
Junior looked into Sara’s huge brown eyes. “Ged? He is a very good man. He and his brother rescued my mother and me from slavery. I was born a lowly slave, and he has always treated me as a member of his family, even though I am obviously not. I will serve him all my life.”
“He sounds wonderful,” said Sara. “My Daddy is like that too. He’s an Immortal, you know. He cannot die of old age and it would take a sudden and complete destruction to kill him. He protects this world from evil, too. I can’t think of a better man anywhere.”
“Does he treat you well?”
“Oh, he treasures me. I have always been the most important thing in his life, at least, since I was born.”
“Do you have a mother?”
“No. She died when I was born. Daddy blames himself. He thinks the disease that keeps him alive may have caused her to die. That’s nonsense, though. How can something like that help one person to live and kill another?”
“That’s very sad. I still have my mother. She doesn’t really love me, though. My father was one of her slave owners. She hates me for reminding her of her life as a slave.”
“Ooh, that’s even sadder!” Sara kissed him on the cheek as she reached around him and began soaping his back. “How could anyone not love you?”
“I never really thought about it,” Junior said. He reached over and put soap on Sara’s neck. His hands caressed her shoulder. “I was worried about survival before. Life was hard. Now that I don’t have to worry about how to stay alive, I have Ged and you to love me. I really don’t think about her much anymore.”
“That makes me happy to hear,” said Sara. “You’re a telepath, aren’t you?”
“You can sense me the same as I can sense you,” said Junior matter-of-factly. “You know what we both are.”
“Yes. But I’ve never had another telepath to play with. Have you ever thought about what you’d do if you met one?”
“No. What do you mean?”
“I want to join minds with you.”
“I’m not sure I can do that.”
“You don’t want to?”
“I don’t know how.”
“I can show you. You put your hands on my temples as I put mine on yours.”
Both children came together at that moment as only a pair of Psions ever could. Two bright and beautiful minds flowed together and combined. Together they could see not only into each other’s personal minds, but they could see the future, and the past before their births, together. They could see a time when they would be man and wife. They could see each other’s powers, Junior’s techno-telepathy, and Sara’s healing telepathy. They saw their time as Ged’s students together and their time as teachers, and of course, much of the dark and troubled times ahead. Someone else looking upon them at that moment would never truly be able to see the miracle of a naked boy and a naked girl holding each other tightly, mind to mind, in the bathhouse of the Palace of One Thousand Years.
Filed under aliens, humor, novel, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney
The Insufferable Superiority of Dead Guys
The quest for wisdom never ends, unless it ends in folly. If it has to end like that, at least I hope it will be the Ice Follies. I love ice-skating.
I may have stupidly revealed this secret before, but since it is already probably out there, here it is again; I have been on a lifelong quest to find and learn wisdom.
Yep, that’s right. I have been doing a lot of fishing in the well of understanding to try and find the ultimate rainbow trout of truth. Of course, it is only incredibly stupid people who actually believe that trout can survive living in a well.
So I have been looking at a lot of what passes for wisdom in this world, and find that for the most part, it consists of a bunch of words written by dead guys.
Boris Pasternak qualifies. He is a dead guy. At least, he has been since 1960. Pasternak is a Russian. His novel Doctor Zhivago is about the period in Russian history between the beginnings of the revolution in…
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September 11, 2018 · 7:06 pm
Over the Rainbow
Here is a notion that I find disturbing, compelling, and totally fascinating. The world portrayed to us through history, current media, and what is assumed to be common knowledge of the facts is all warped and incorrect. The people who make the world go round, like Glinda the Good Witch, Dorothy, and the Wizard in Oz are all lying to us.
What? You thought I was talking about something more than the Wizard of Oz? Well, you were right. You cannot consider the real meaning of the story Frank L. Baum wrote without realizing that it has more than one meaning.
You understand that in this story we are talking about a girl who becomes an interdimensional traveler. She visits a dimension which contains the Land of Oz (a place you cannot find anywhere on a map of the Earth) first by means of an interdimensional Kansas tornado, and later, after learning how to use them properly, finds her way back to her own dimension by magic-heel-clicking ruby slippers.
Not only that but after she learns of the whole rulership of Oz by witches and wizards, she allows herself to be recruited as an assassinator of evil witches by a supposed “good witch”. Again, she kills the first one by accident, then learns by trial and error how to kill the second one despite the witch’s winged-monkey minions.
Nothing in Oz is, of course, really what it seems to be. The Scarecrow, representing the rural farm worker, has been convinced he is an idiot know-nothing who doesn’t even have a brain. Yet, in the story, his were the plans that led the group to successfully overcoming obstacles. The Tin Man, representing the modern factory worker, has been told he doesn’t have a heart. Yet he is the one with the most empathy, willing to make any sacrifice necessary for the benefit of those he loves. And the Lion, symbolizing the military, is told he is cowardly, and he believes it, though he is willing to face grave danger and bravely takes on Dorothy’s enemies in spite of his paralyzing fear.
And we all know the Wizard, the man behind the curtain, is a humbug and a con man, trying to deceive others to stay in control of every situation and potential problem. (I am actually surprised his face is not orange and he doesn’t have tiny hands for signing executive orders,)
So I believe I have definitely shown there is a conspiracy behind the whole Wizard of Oz thing. It becomes obvious if you match up the signs, symbols, and clues. But the biggest thing of all is the obvious evidence of making everybody wear green sunglasses in the Emerald City. The cover-up is the greatest giveaway that there is when something odd is going on in Oz that they don’t want you to know about. It is the biggest clue that George W. Wizard is actually the instigator behind 9/11. The Scarecrow is also behind the back-engineering of alien spaceships at Area 51. The Tin Man is behind the chemtrails in the sky that are trying to undo the damage of global warming. And the Lion led the assassination team of CIA shooters who killed Kennedy. I know it all sounds crazy. But still… if we are willing to believe little Kansas girls can ride tornadoes into otherworldly dimensions…
And we all know who really voted Trump into office in 2016.
Filed under commentary, conspiracy theory, humor, metaphor, Paffooney, Uncategorized
Mickey Notes
Sometimes a Mickey needs to take stock of where he is, where he is going, and what is going on in the world around him. I think this Mickey needs to make a list of bullet points and hope like hell that nobody gets shot.
- Mickey is old. At 61-and-a-half he has six incurable diseases and has been a cancer survivor since 1983. In modern America, he can no longer afford medicines like insulin that may be necessary to stay alive. After paying out thousands of dollars in hospital bills and doctor bills, he’s gone bankrupt and probably will not go to the doctor the next time he needs to. So Mickey is probably right in considering himself temporary at best.
- The diseases referred to are diabetes, arthritis, COPD, psoriasis, hypertension, and BPH. No laughing matter, Mickey knows, but not really a crying matter either. If the economy and the system of government don’t allow you to get real, necessary health care, well… laughter is the best medicine, isn’t it? And eating right, as much as you can afford to do it, counts for something.
- Mickey’s car is in the shop. The goofer who rammed into the driver’s side door in the rain is definitely at fault in the accident. His insurance, however, holds Mickey 85% responsible because he didn’t have his lights on (although I am pretty sure he did) even though it was almost noon and headlights weren’t strictly necessary in what was merely a light rain.
- The doors on Mickey’s car won’t open until both of them and the column between them, are both replaced. So, Mickey is stuck borrowing his nephew’s red car which has a dying battery, mysterious rumbling engine indigestion, and a cracked windshield.
- Mickey has six good novels published; Catch a Falling Star, Stardusters and Space Lizards, Superchicken, Snow Babies, Magical Miss Morgan, and The Bicycle-Wheel Genius.
- Mickey also has two completed manuscripts awaiting revision, editing, and publication; Recipes for Gingerbread Children and The Baby Werewolf.
- And Mickey has reached 100 pages and 34,000 words on his current manuscript; Sing Sad Songs.
- It should be obvious, then, that Mickey intends to write fictions furiously until he drops dead. Mickey hopes that you don’t hope that he will drop dead sooner rather than later. He promises that his fictions aren’t that bad.
- Mickey has decided not to waste any more time making fun of the current criminal in the White House. That problem really seems to be coming to an end on its own.
- It is probably also obvious that Mickey has been transforming his Paffoonies from grayish photographishes into clear and bright scannishes… er… scans.
- And when Mickey writes Mickey Notes, he always intends to write something different than it turns out he has really written as he gets closer to 500 words and the end of the essay.
- Oh, well, Mickey knows how it goes, I suppose, and so he is now done writing Mickey Notes… for today.
Filed under autobiography, feeling sorry for myself, goofy thoughts, humor, Mickey, Paffooney, self pity
Hidden Kingdom (Through Page 6)
Filed under artwork, cartoons, comic book heroes, comic strips, fairies, Hidden Kingdom, Paffooney
Metaphor and Meaning
I am ill today. I am in bed, grinning at the walls like a plate of moldy spaghetti. What does that mean? I guess you have to read this to find out… and then curse me for being so obtuse.
In this week’s Paffooney remix, I have pictured the little boy crooner Francois Martin on the main street of Norwall. Why have I done such a foolish thing? Why have I drawn a boy singing silently a song that only I can hear in my silly old head? In fact, why do I label them Cantos instead of Chapters? Of course, the answer to these rhetorical questions is metaphorical. I look at my writing as being poetry, or, more accurately, as music rather than mere prose. It is a metaphor central to my being, writing is putting the inner music of my mind down on paper.
Here is a secret to powerful writing. Connect ideas with metaphors. A metaphor is a direct comparison of two unlike things to create an analogy, an echo of an idea that gives resonance to a notion. Sorry, I’m an English teacher. It’s in…
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Filed under Uncategorized
Catch a Falling Star 
Telling Teacher Stories
Here’s a secret that is only a secret if you are one of the well-over-six-billion people that don’t know I exist; I loved being a public school teacher. I taught for 31 years. 24 years of that was in middle school. I taught more than 1000 different seventh graders. And I loved it.
Please don’t reveal this secret to any mental health professionals. I like my freedom. And I am really not dangerous even after teaching that many seventh graders. I promise.
But it has left me with a compulsion. I confess it is the reason I write humorous young adult novels and why I continue to write this blog. I have to tell teacher stories or I will surely explode.
I have to tell you not only about the normal kids I taught, but the super-brainy mega-nerds I taught, the relatively stupid kids I taught, the honor students, the autistic kids, the kids who loved to sleep in class, the classroom clowns that tried to keep them awake, the kids who loved my class, the kids who hated my class, the times I was a really stupid teacher, the times I achieved some real milestones for some wonderful kids, the kids I still love to this day, the kids I tried really hard to love, but…. (well, some kids not even a mother could love), the drug dealers I had to protect my class from, the kids who talked to me about suicide and abuse and horrible things that still make me cry, the kids I lost along the way, and, well, the list goes on and on but this is an epic run-on sentence and the English teacher inside me is screaming at the moment.
You get the idea. Like most writers… real writers, not hacks and wannabees, I write because I have to. I don’t have a choice. No matter what it costs me. And what do I have to talk about in writing except being a school teacher and the almost infinite lessons that experience taught me?
I loved being the rabbit holding the big pencil in the front of the classroom. And that metaphor means, as crazy as it sounds, I loved being a teacher.
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Filed under autobiography, commentary, education, humor, kids, Paffooney, teaching