Flower Girl 2… Made from the same digital picture, with AI Mirror and Picsart AI Photo Editor
New Pictures and Experiments with AI
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Dvorák’s Scherzo in the Nude
Another opportunity to visit the nudist park has passed without me being able to seize the day and do what I really wanted to do this weekend. It was, however, a different set of reasons than last time. Last time I was determined to go on a Saturday when more nudists would actually be present. I got sick and it rained that Saturday. So I set my sights on Labor Day weekend.
This weekend the hurricane that ravaged Houston changed my plans. You see, the storm also ravaged Port Arthur and the distribution points that local gas stations rely on for new shipments on a weekly basis. I did not see the gas shortage coming in time. The lines at gas stations and two hour waits for gas mostly all happened before I was ready to cope with it. So I was not prepared to make the trip when the time came. Gas stations are limited to selling chewing gum and promising that more gas would be available by the middle of next week.
If you haven’t realized it yet from these details that could only have happened in the past (2017,) this is a repost of one of my more popular posts from the past. But it is still relevant in that I cannot go to the nudist park again this summer for health reasons and the fact that my car is taking longer than normal to be repaired.
Yes, the boy in the picture is me naked as I might’ve been in a more sylvan youth than the one I actually had.
So I am left to sit here in my bedroom studio in the nude writing this and listening to Dvorák’s Scherzo Capriccioso on YouTube.
A scherzo is, perhaps, the perfect metaphor for an essay like this one. Most of what I write are really scherziplay (or scherzi if I hadn’t goofed on that typo in the definition) if you analyze them closely. Sprightly and humorous idea flows (at least, they make me laugh) that wax thoughtful and slightly serious at certain points. This one, the capriccioso, the capricious and mercurial idea that I have somehow turned into a nudist, is my attempt to make sense of the nonsensical, the whims and flimsy that led me to be a naked old man.
You may have noticed in my artwork a tendency to associate nudity with childlike innocence. (At least, you should have noticed if I have any ability at all as a writer and artist to guide your perceptions.) There is no sense at the nudist park that it is about sexuality and impending orgies. Those things are completely against the rules and have no place among actual nudists. You go to a nudist park and it is just you and your towel for sitting on talking to a bunch of naked people who are just as fat and old and saggy and baggy as you are, each with their own towels for sitting on. Nobody uses more than their first names and more than that is not necessary. Nudists are more open and honest than most people you meet in social situations. They literally are not hiding anything. And I have discovered that I fit right in there. It seems like the most natural thing in the world. I really enjoyed my brief time nude amongst the nudists.
Once I got past the initial embarrassment that anyone would feel in that new-nudist situation, I came to the conclusion that I have always been a nudist. Having been born a nudist, my parents and grandparents trained me not to be one, and being sexually assaulted at ten gave added horror to being naked around others that it took a lifetime to overcome. But naked is how we were created. There is a reason that Adam and Eve didn’t wear clothes in Eden.
I didn’t get to go back to the nudist park this holiday weekend. I will never convince my wife and kids to go with me either. In fact, I myself may never have another opportunity to go back there. But listening to Dvorak’s Scherzo has confirmed in me that I am a nudist and always have been. Sorry if I have frightened you with my naked ideas, but maybe you should listen to a scherzo naked and test whether you are one too.
D & D Sidekicks
Why did Batman have Robin the Boy Wonder? Not only that, but why Bucky and Captain America? Green Arrow and Speedy? Aquaman and Aqualad? Superman and Krypto the Super Dog? Fredric Wertham, the Seduction of the Innocents and the Comics Code guy, would have you believe that they were there to make young boys turn gay and violent. But that was nonsense, wasn’t it? Better change Krypto for photographer Jimmy Olsen just in case.
But if that was merely nonsense, why was it such a part of the formula?
As a D & D dungeon master, I have my own theory about sidekicks and their function in story-telling.
Young sidekicks were an important part of the stories I told as a game master because the players in my games were mostly adolescent boys themselves. It was the same as the primary readers of Batman comics in the 1950’s of Wertham’s Comics Code. The young hero or adventurer character, most often in the form of a non-player character, was someone they could relate to because of age. They had more in common with the sidekick than the lead hero. It helped to draw them into the story and make it relevant.
As a story-telling device, you often find the young apprentice character in novels written for younger audiences. Think of David Eddings’ Belgariad, or Lloyd Alexander’s Chronicles of Prydain, or Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. The characters of Garion the youngster in the Belgariad, Taran the young protagonist of Prydain, and certainly Jim Hawkins of Treasure Island.
So, with that realization, I incorporated youthful characters, both boys and girls, as apprentices and student-adventurers.
Initially it proved to be a hard thing. Wizards and sorcerers, according to D & D rules, can take an apprentice once they reach level three. But first level characters as apprentices are vulnerable because damage done by third level monsters wipes out the meager hit point reserves of a beginner character. After several traumatic deaths of beloved sidekicks, the player characters begin to take steps to protect them better in combat, or quickly learn where to find priests with resurrection spells who work really cheap.
Of course, these characters are useful for more than just creating combat complications. They are really useful for comic relief. The missteps, mistakes, and total botch-jobs that these inexperienced younger characters create can make us laugh, make us sweat a little to correct it, and move the plot forward in interesting ways that I, as the game master, wouldn’t have otherwise planned.
So, hopefully, Mr. Wertham’s ghost isn’t hovering over my D & D game thinking it is all a plot to create a generation of violent, gay youths. Hopefully he can see that it is all a part of a well-established story-telling literary device that actually helps to educate and deepen the understanding of youths. But it is swiftly becoming irrelevant what Wertham’s ghost thinks anyway. I haven’t played D & D for a while now. My sons and daughter now have their own groups of friends, playing under different dungeon masters with different dice. But hopefully, the need for youthful sidekicks will remain.
Cissy Moonskipper Meets the Nebulons, Part 5
Going to the Happy Place
As they were being led down further into the massive space whale, the lead warrior turned back to Prince Porodor and bowed.
“You need to consider that sacrificing Suki Vorranac along with these Humaniti scum will not sit well with the counsel or the Warlord Vorranac himself. She has the prime bloodline (said in Galactic English for Cissy’s benefit.)”
“That is my worry, my argument,” said the prince flatly.
The lead warrior nodded and turned away, signaling the group of the condemned to follow him. The naked boy who looked human hugged his twin and then joined them.
“I can almost understand why they are going to kill us, but why are you going to be executed?” Cissy said to the boy.
“I am not enough like them to remain among them. I would die here eventually anyway. This just makes it happen sooner.”
“Won’t they at least give you a Danjer suit?” Cissy asked.
“I will be given one when we get to the happy place.”
“The happy place?”
“Prisoners to be executed as whale food are given time to make their peace with the universe. It is something I understand the Imperium does not do.”
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true. Of course, the Galtorr Fusions are half lizard people, which probably explains that.”
“My name is Wylo Voron, though I have to stop using the Voron part now that I am being cast out.”
“My name is Cissy Moonskipper. I ain’t giving up any of that.”
Wylo shook Cissy’s hand and smiled. He was a cute kid. Probably at least three years younger than Cissy. Or three Spltzblixes, or whatever the heck Nebulons called a year.
The interior of the space whale was like a vast hollow tube with gravity-downside carpeted in villages, lakes, rivers, forests, and meadows. Hand-built structures covered the sides, and the ceiling was a combination of pulsating whale organs and Sun Sources. Clouds and mists obscured some of the ceiling.
“This is a really beautiful place,” said Cissy, nearly breathless with awe.
“I have never been in this space whale before,” said Suki. “But my home whale was almost as beautiful as this.”
The lead warrior delivered the small group to a pretty white cottage on the edge of the nearest lake. They were met there by five people. A Nebulon man who was the same size as Suki, his wife who was slightly smaller, and three blue children.
“You will be cared for by Taro Vorranac and his family. They will do anything you ask but help you escape. They don’t speak Galactic English, but Suki can translate.” The lead warrior saluted Taro and then led his troop back toward the whale head.
Suki introduced everyone to everyone in another endless stream of Nebulonin ak-ak-ak-oohwak in which Cissy recognized names and nothing else. Taro’s wife was Sonno and the children were two boys named Taroon and Jaffouhc. The girl was Diznee. All three of them were naked and happy that way, but Sonno recognized the need to give Wylo a purple Danjer suit.
Their Nebulon hosts were all generous and kind people that Cissy easily warmed up to.
Later as they sat around the family table drinking a delicious blue juice that Sonno called Perhoucahac, Cissy asked Suki, “So, what do we do now? Can we try to eIscape?”
“If we do, Taro and Sonno’s family will be sacrificed in our place. And I don’t want that on my conscience.”
“Budd… I doan wanna die…” whined Friday. Diznee petted her because, although she didn’t understand a word of what was said, she could feel Friday’s fear and pain.
“I’m not giving up yet, Friday,” Cissy said, patting the dog girl’s paw. “There has to be a way out of this.”
“The Nebulon way is to eat and drink and be happy until the end is here.” Suki let a tear escape her right eye. It ran down across the red dot on her cheek.
“Your Prince Porodor is not a very nice landlord.”
Taro’s family looked at each other in confusion.
“My family doesn’t like him either,” Suki admitted.
When the Old Mind Wanders…
When the old mind wanders…
They tell you you’re just too slow.
But thoughts like mine drift everywhere,
And the edges of the universe… are a place to go.
Maybe I should write in red.
And argue with the voices
That rhyme inside my head.
And break the rhyme scheme
Here and there
Because of what they said.
Or maybe I should write in blue
Because I’ve been thinking in the nude
And laying all my secrets bare
Which really might be rude.
But the old mind wanders…
In the form of a poem,
And breaks and squanders
Tallest waves in mere foam.
Filed under artwork, clowns, goofy thoughts, humor, nudes, Paffooney, poem, poetry, strange and wonderful ideas about life
A Paffooney in Progress
What will I do with this new picture? Well, prove that I can still draw well in pen and ink. A few flubs from shaky hands, but not glaringly awful. The story? That remains to be created.
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Dancing with a Faun in the Street
Missteps are many as the dance begins,
No coins are in my pocket, but I can dance along.
Fortune rarely favors me, the stones are sharp directly underfoot.
I wonder how much longer the dance can last.
I know the tune, and it’s not overlong.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And yet, I whirl and enjoy the swirl of color, tone, and movement.
The faun’s recorder tweets and croons a beautiful refrain.
I step and sway and feel okay as my old heart thumps along.
I will enjoy it while it lasts even though the time has quickly passed,
And, hopefully, I will still be dancing right up until the end.
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Books That Make You Hurt
Yes, I read this book. Yes, it scared the poop out of me. Yes, it made me cry. This is a uniquely horrific horror story that is so realistic that you know that it has actually happened in real life somewhere, sometime. Only the names of the characters would be different.
I have a deep abiding respect for Richard Peck as a writer. He earned that with his books A Year Down Yonder and A Long Way from Chicago. Those books made me laugh so hard it blew chocolate milk out of my nose. And, yes, I was drinking chocolate milk at the time. They are so realistic because the people in those stories are real people. I know those people personally. Of course, they have different names in real life.
But Are You In the House Alone? is a very different book from those other two masterpieces. It tears your heart out and eats your liver because it is a first person narrative in the voice of a high school girl being stalked by a sexual predator. Everything that happens to Gail in the high school, at home, and at the house where she babysits is hyper-real with horror movie levels of attention to detail. I don’t wish to be a spoiler for this well-written book, but the narrator does not die in the book and it definitely does not have a happy ending. For anyone who has the amount of empathy I do, and in many ways becomes the narrator-character by reading, reading a book like this can physically hurt. A teacher like me has lived through horrible things like this happening to students before, it even happened to me as a boy, and it adds the slings and arrows of those things being re-lived as you read.
This is not the only book that has ever done this sort of damage to my heart strings. I remember the pain from the conclusion of Dickens’ The Old Curiosity Shop. You root for Little Nell and boo Daniel Quilp. But the bad guy wins. No happy ending can linger in the harp-strings of your memory-feeling song as long as a tragic outcome does. I was there with Scout in that ridiculous costume in the dark when Bob Ewell was attacking her brother Jem in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. That story was filled with wise and laughable things, but the stark horror of that climactic moment nearly wiped all the good feelings away, if not for the heroics of ghostly Boo Radley whose timely intervention brings it all back before the novel ends. It horrifies me to admit it, but I was there, too, in the moment when the boys all turn on Simon on the beach with their sharpened sticks in William Golding’s Lord of the Flies. They mistook him for the monster. I still haven’t fully recovered from that reading trauma.
The thing about books that hurt to read which makes it essential that I never try to avoid them, is that they can add more depth and resonance to your soul than any light and fluffy piece ever could. Life is much more like Lord of the Flies than it is Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. I am sadder but wiser for having read Are You In the House Alone? I am recommending it to other readers like me who don’t so much live to read as they read in order to live. Not because it is easy and good to read, but because it is hard and essential to read. It will hurt you. But it will leave you like it leaves its narrator, damaged, but both alive and purely resolved to carry on.
I have written one too.
Filed under book reports, book review, horror writing, insight, inspiration, irony, old books, reading
Toys From My Second Childhood
(This is a post from 2017, before the swimming pool had to be removed, before it caused my heart trouble, and before I had to declare Chapter 13 Bankruptcy.)
Being retired for health reasons and unable to work, I would be dead already without my writing and art endeavors to fill my time and keep me sane. I can do some work, as proven by my attempts to patch and repair the swimming pool this summer. But my limitations drive me crazy, as proven by the fact that I did about half of the work on the pool wearing only sunscreen and a hat. My kids are not married yet, and two of them are still in high school, but they are not much interested in toys any more. And I don’t yet have grandkids to spoil. So when I go the Resale Store or Goodwill to shop for old toys, I am basically buying them for myself.
The Princess of the Korean Court Barbie was lying on the bargain shelf for $3.49. I bought the ceramic wishing well behind her for $5.00. So the bargain-hunting gene I inherited from Scotch ancestors was duly satisfied. But I had to do more with things like these than merely own them. Toys are for playing. And what does a 60-year-old man do with dolls when he is playing? Besides being a bit creepy, I mean? Well, this photo is the answer. I use my toys to create pictures and artwork.
Here’s a creation using the ceramic wishing well again. It is apparently, on closer inspection, actually a candle holder. But it serves to make my Walmart Clearance Sale Disney toys happy. Here you see the pony-brushing party held by Minnie Mouse with Daisy Duck and the gay snowman from Frozen.
Here you see the metal miniatures I got in a pack from Walmart as they visit the cardboard castle. Two of the lead figures on the ground are hand painted by me in days long ago. The entire cardboard castle was printed and glued on cardboard, cut out and put together entirely by me. Mickey, Minnie, Alice, Stitch, and Kermit are the metal miniatures not painted by me.
So, my days have not been overwhelmed by boredom and frustration and problems with city pool inspectors (he doesn’t even know about doing the repair work in the nude, so he can’t give me a ticket for that.) I have been filling my time with toys and creative play. I have been mostly a good boy… err… old man.
Cissy Moonskipper Meets the Nebulons… An Apology
I am still writing this novella as a part of my Tuesday novel-writing demonstration. But this next chapter proves a difficult lump of story to carve into shape. Partly because the younger of my two sisters has cancer and my damaged car has to get fixed and the dermatologist used her dermatologist’s cancer-spot freezer to spray both of my temples and freeze my stupid head. I have been interrupted by other things. But the plot function this next part addresses is clear in my head. I just need another week to sort it out… after my frozen head thaws out.
I was listening to the Warsaw Philharmonic Orchestra in Poland performing Edward Elgar’s Enigma Variations. Have you heard it? As classical music goes, it is thinking-candy. Honestly, I strongly recommend it.
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