Lessons From Tchaikovsky

Since I am having trouble posting new stuff to this blog, I thought I would give you a second look at last year’s end-of-the-school-year and end-of-life post… in honor of the end of school this year, not because I am dying or anything.

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I used to be a classroom storyteller.  As an English teacher for middle school kids, I often would give brief biographical insights into famous people we were talking about at the time.  I told them about Crazy Horse of the Sioux tribe, Roger Bacon the alchemist and inventor of chemistry as a science, Mark Twain in Gold Rush California, and many other people I have found fascinating through my life as a reader and writer of English.

One bright boy in my gifted class remarked, “Mr. B, you always tell us these stories about people who did something amazing, and then you end it with they eventually died a horrible death.”

Yep.  That’s about right.  In its simplest form life consists of, “You are born, stuff happens, and then you die.”  And it does often seem to me that true genius and great heroism are punished terribly in the end…

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June 8, 2018 · 6:40 pm

Mickey Viewed From the Inside

I have a bunch of new followers that have not been duly warned. So here is an old confessional post that may help them realize the danger they are in.

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Yes, this post is a self-examination.  Not the kind you see Donald Trump enacting every weekend, where he says any crappy thing that occurs to his craptastical very good brain to cover what he doesn’t want us to believe about the truth on Twitter, basically for the purpose of continuing to say he is great and we are poop.   I do not like myself the way Trump likes himself.  I am an old bag of gas that is in pain most of the time, in poor health, and the subject of endless persecution from Bank of America and other money-grubbing machines that are convinced any money I might accidentally have really belongs to them.  But this is not a complain-about-crap fest either.

This is a self-examination that attempts to honestly examine where I am in my quest for wisdom and my affliction with being a writer.

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If I am being…

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June 7, 2018 · 8:27 pm

All Hail… Aw, Heck!

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This is probably the hailstone that cracked the glass on my bedroom window at 1:45 am early this morning.  We got a devastating hailstorm in the middle of the night.  Baseball-sized hail came down on parts of Carrollton, Texas and bashed in car windshields and broke windows and stripped leaves and branches from trees.

It not only woke me up, it made me instantly desperate.  I do not have the $1000 dollars necessary for the insurance deductible that such a disaster would create.  My economic recovery after bankruptcy would be completely derailed.  No car means no extra money from Uber to help pay for doctor bills, the bankruptcy payouts, the income tax bill, and the losses we suffered from the city forcing us to remove our cracked swimming pool last summer.  So I went first to watch the hail come down, fearing it would destroy my life.  I noticed that it was coming down sporadically in the rain and it was only about marble-sized in our neighborhood.  As soon as the ice bombs stopped banging on the roof, I went out into the early morning downpour in only bathrobe, pants, and shoes and checked on my poor little Ford Fiesta.  I found the window-breaker under the bedroom window, but the tree and sporadic-ness of the stones had protected my car.  No cracked windows there.  No dings and divots either.  My car was un-struck.

It would turn out that morning light revealed my wife’s car had been similarly defended by a different tree.

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The flowers in the flower patch out where the pool used to be were just beginning to bloom before the storm.  They not only survived the hail, but benefited from the much-needed rain.

So, as my daughter the Princess pointed out this morning, maybe the Greek goddess of bad luck and chaos has finally concluded that I have had enough bad luck for one lifetime… or maybe year… or month… or, goddess please, at least this week.  I did also successfully ignore a phone scam about a fraud investigation involving my tax return.  I did not contact Agent Paul Avery because my tax return has already been accepted and I have even made the first installment payment of the money I owe the IRS.  What kind of idiot would I have to be to commit a fraud on my taxes that would make me pay over a thousand dollars extra on taxes?  Besides, I had seen previous warnings of this particular scam in the news.  Naughty Mr. Agent Avery has been quite the busy boy.   I also know about at least four car accidents that I didn’t get into yesterday and today.  One lady turned in front of me and almost hit me head on.  Somehow I knew by looking at her that she was going to insanely do what she should not do in moderate traffic and I hit the break in time.  Possibly not all luck is bad luck.  And I am not Joe Btfsplk.  At least, not today.

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Comic Strips Can Make Me Cry

I need to laugh and cry a little sometimes, and this re-blog is a way to do both… a little.

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I have been a cartoon nut for a long, long time.  I think it goes back to a time before I really have memories.  I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know who Cat in the Hat was, or that Pogo was a possum and Albert was an alligator, or that Daisy Mae constantly had to chase Lil’ Abner afore they could git hitched.  And I have always known that cartoons and comic strip characters weren’t real.  But there were a few times in life when comic strips made me cry.  Am I really that much of pansy that I wilt in the face of cartoon tragedy?  Yes.  Whole-heartedly!

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Take for instance Tom Batiuk’s long-running spoof of teenagers and life in high school, Funky Winkerbean.  One of the first things that makes this comic special is that the characters have lives that expand into the deepening depths behind…

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Aeroquest… Nocturne One

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Nocturne One – The King and the Dark Beauty

    The infamous King of Killers was watching as Sheherazade ran out of the caverns calling for Doctor Blake.  His sour face was smudged with oil and soot from his daring rescue of the beautiful female pirate.  No one knew how much his heart ached for her.  Seven years he had watched her flirt with Elvis, Blue Death, and even Ensign Pavel.   Seven years of wishing and hoping and planning which had all come to naught.  Sooner or later one or both of them would die in combat.  Probably sooner now that Tron had made the horrible mistake of taking up with Goofy Dalgoda again.  The Goofer was a pure Jonah, poison to the corsair band.

Sheherazade found the puny little doctor by his ATV.  The scrawny medico was patching up war wounds.  He could prevent scars with Imperial medical tech, but no pirate would forgo a chance for a real battle scar.  Patching was all he was allowed to do.  Blake was both a doctor of medicine and a top notch combat pilot, but in King’s studied opinion, he was a prissy little nerd, with luminous lady’s eyes and a pencil thin… moustache.

The doctor rushed down the tunnel as soon as Sheherry relayed the order from Tron.  He was gone from view in a flash.  Not so with Sheherry.  She lingered, slouching alluringly.  The brass bikini she wore covered only the ends of ample bosoms and the areas critical to earn a PG-13 rating.  Was she conscious of the effect she had on men?  Surely she must know.

“Thanks for what you did today,” she said without looking in King’s direction.

“You know I didn’t want to lose a good pilot.  I may need you to cover my butt next time.”

“Don’t worry, King.  You have a pretty butt.  I would never let anything happen to it.”  She looked him square in the eyes and smiled evilly.

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King Killer blushed.  He hoped the soot kept the red from showing.  He was not the sort known for blushing.

Sheherazade straightened herself up to her full, beautiful height and walked over to him with the slink of a leopard in her own jungle domain.

“You have orders from… erm, the boss?” he said with an uncustomary stumble.

“Maybe, but other matters have been weighing on my mind too.”

“Like what?”

“Like why you stare at me constantly but never say anything.  Like why you blush when you hear me say dirty words.  King, you are a man of action.  You are cool under fire and unshakable.  What is it about me that shakes you up?”

“Well, I, uh…”

“Could it be that you love me, but are just afraid to say the words out loud?”

“No, erm… I mean…”

She laughed.  She ran her ebony hand along the line of his jaw, and then kissed him on the lips.  It lasted longer than he would have ever expected.

“After what you did today,” she said, looking him steadily in the eye, “I realize that your feelings are no longer just an amusing detail for me.  I need you as much as you need me.  I’ve been watching how much Maggie and Tron love each other.  I need that too.  And, I know, it’s you, King.  You are the one for me.”

“What about Elvis?” asked King in his hard, cool combat voice.

“The man’s a pig.  I could never love him the way I do you.  Don’t tell me I’m wrong about you.  I’ll die if you shoot me out of the air now.”

Something changed for the first time in King’s life.  He cracked his first real smile.  He kissed her again.

“The Captain can marry us, you know.”

“Yes,” she said.  “I already asked Tron to do it for us at about twenty hundred hours this evening.”

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My Music is Better Than Yours…

My next novel, the one I have just started the first draft of, is a novel about music and dreams.  Sing Sad Songs is the title, unless I decide to change it back into Sing Sad Songs… with Clowns.

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I have an insane urge to write my next novel as music.  I intend to have it narrated in first person by three different characters, none of whom are themselves the main character.  So there are three back-up singers to the lead singer who carries the tune and drives the plot forward.

And there will be death and murder in this music, as well as a touch of the H.P. Lovecraft’s Dreamlands.  And together we will transcend genre and the borders of a single novel and common sense entirely.  Can I do it?  Of course not.  Metaphors are never literally true… even if Bible thumpers claim they are, invoking God as the author.  But it will be the biggest, most complex, and difficult novel I have ever written.  The writing of it may kill me.  But if it works, it will be worth it.

Hyperbole, you say?  An oxymoron come to life?  Well, of course it is.  Believe the worst about it, and it will become true.  But if I believe the best about it…  well, we shall see what we shall see.

I mean to try.

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Toccata and Fugue in D Minor

The very best of things are mold-breaking and unconventional. I know the risks. Writing is music. And here in this post, I have done my very best… or possibly worst, to play it like master.

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Johann Sebastian Bach may or may not have written his organ masterpiece, Toccata and Fugue in D Minor in 1704.  All we know for sure is that the combined efforts of Johannes Ringk, who saved it in manuscript form in the 1830’s, and Felix Mendelssohn who performed it and made it a hit you could dance to during the Bach Revival in 1840 made it possible to still hear its sublime music today.  Okay, maybe not dance to exactly…  But without the two of them, the piece might have been lost to us in obscurity.

The Toccata part is a composition that uses fast fingerings and a sprightly beat to make happy hippie type music that is really quite trippy.   The Fugue part (pronounced Fyoog, not Fuggwee which I learned to my horror in grade school music class) is a part where one part of the tune echoes another…

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Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor

Here’s a bit of musical rumination worth a second thought…

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You should listen to the music.  Not only is it beautiful, it is the perfect description of the now.  Yes, I am a touch depressed, and the music is deep blue.  But there are such strains of the bittersweet and angelic light, that Albinoni must be speaking directly from his heart into mine.  This music paints my soul.

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The sky reflects my mood with lurking dark blues and obscuring clouds incapable of completely taking away the sun.  I finally had enough money to visit the doctor today.  I had an infection in throat and sinus.  I got medicine to heal the sores, and the medicine will prevent pneumonia, and probably saved my life.

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My family was whole and together for the holidays, though three of us were sick for a good share of it and unable to spend the time together  as we would’ve liked.  Still, even though we had…

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Lyrical Lessons from Life

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I am still in lazy mode, not quite making the effort for 500 words…  But, in my defense, a picture is supposed to be worth a thousand words.  So, the picture above should count as 1,042 words because of the words in it.

Poetry is like that.  Even bad poetry.  This doggerel verse is capable of meaning far more things than it specifically, literally states.  But I shouldn’t point that out.  You should never explain a poem… or defend a poem… a poem should simply be.  Even a bad poem.

And there are those who will say it is not a bad poem.  It speaks to simple farmer wisdom, the kind I learned while yet a boy in Iowa 50 years ago.  Did you realize that I made this meme on a photo of my own unweeded flower garden, grown in the unforgiving Texas heat?

That’s all there is to today’s post.  A picture/poem… a tiny bit of wisdom… on the first hot Sunday in June.

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The Ancient Lost Kingdom

Here’s a second old D&D re-blog, just for the heck of it.

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In our original Dungeons and Dragons campaign back in the 1980’s, the player characters followed a series of clues until they discovered the land was once civilized under the rule of Castle Starnor, and Arthur, the White Stag King.  The wizard Merlini revealed to the heroes that the Raggedy Prince whose army of monsters they defeated was actually descended from the White Stag King, which was strange because people believed the myth that Arthur had actually been a spirit stag, a ghost deer with arcane powers.  The prince was cast into the dungeon in the city of Balindale, the city they had liberated from his monstrous army.  The wizard Merlini was able to study the prince up close and learn more.  

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During the Black Wizard Crisis, the heroes captured the Black Wizard’s right-hand witch and cast her into the same dungeon where the Raggedy Prince dwelt.  The two villains…

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