Tag Archives: artwork

Monkey-head Musings

chimpater1

I am not what you would call political.  I have some friends that I care about who are very conservative.  And when I say conservative, I mean Obama-is-Hitler-and-illegals- are-taking-over-our-country-and-keep-your-government-hands-off-my-medicare-sort of conservatives.  The loony, Fox News-watching, crazy sorts of conservatives.  How could I be from Iowa and not know lots of those types?  They would probably be really offended by this post if they actually bothered to read it.   But no worries, most of them don’t read in complete sentences.  I also have some more sensible, care-about-poor-people-and-worry-about-education-and-try-to-save-the planet sorts of people who used to be called moderates, but now are looked upon as loony liberals.  I think I side more with them.  I have to admit though, a Facebook commenter recently upset me by accusing me of misrepresenting the facts when I commented that Texas has privately operated for-profit prisons (I saw one up close when I lived in Cotulla) and that they have taken money away from education (my district by itself had State money reduced by a million dollars in order to help Emperor Perry balance the Texas budget without touching his billion dollar rainy day fund).  I am not usually one to fuss up the facts.  That’s more of a conservative thing.  I know it is pointless to argue on Facebook about politics.  I definitely don’t need to get upset about people who, no matter what evidence or reason you give them, will never change their mind.  But I have discovered that politics do affect me.  Take the health care issue.  I have six incurable diseases and am a cancer survivor since 1983.  If healthcare reform had resulted in socialized medicine, government paid-for healthcare, that would benefit me the most.  As it is, the Affordable Care Act (perjoratively known as Obamacare) helps me by insuring that I won’t pay insurance premiums for a lifetime and then die from a life-time maximum payout instituted by the insurance companies.  Banker and Insurance Representative are actually two new names for pirate.  They are in the business of collecting premiums and refusing to pay claims.  They don’t need to be de-regulated so they can make more money and deny me health care more easily.  They need more regulation, not less.  But conservatives in Texas want Obamacare repealed.  Senator Ted (Monkey-face) Cruz even shut the government down to try to destroy Obamacare.  Texas conservatives refuse to take government money to help them make the Affordable Care Act work.  They resist the administration of a program that provides insurance via Medicaid (a Bush program) to people who can’t otherwise afford it.  They don’t realize that it would actually benefit everyone (except the insurance companies) to have poor people be able to do something besides go to the emergency room and let taxpayers pay for it.  Conservatives would actually vote against their own best economic interests to support the conservative party line.  So here is the absolute worst thing about all these Monkey-head Musings, conservatives, some of whom I care a lot about, are not helping themselves.  They are riding the bicycle over the cliff at the fastest pace their legs can manage, and no matter how much I yell and point at the cliff, they keep on peddling.  And there is a tether on my ankle tied to the backs of quite a large number of bicycles.

Math Monkey

 

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A Poem Is…

When you try to create a poem,

You find out that it is…

A cry of rage…

From your very soul…

Or a deep-bellied laugh…

From your very soul…

Or an untamable sadness and tears…

From your very soul…

And you cannot help but put it into words…

From your very soul.

Poem Is

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A Poem Is…

When you try to create a poem,

You find out that it is…

A cry of rage…

From your very soul…

Or a deep-bellied laugh…

From your very soul…

Or an untamable sadness and tears…

From your very soul…

And you cannot help but put it into words…

From your very soul.

Poem Is

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Native Americans Invade My Artwork

I don’t know if you’ve seen enough of my colored-pencil Paffooneys to tell this, but for an old white guy, I draw a lot of Native Americans and am rather deeply in love with American Indian images.  You may have seen this dream painting I posted before.

Magicman

The girl in the painting is a combination of this warrior’s daughter and myself.  I was naked in the dream and a female, facing this huge ghost-stag.  The dream came while I was reading Hanta Yo by Ruth Beebe Hill.  Maybe that book was the beginning of my Native American obsession.  Who knows?  I am a crazy dreamer.  But that wonderful book turned me on to the rich spiritual life that the Dakota people lived.  I identified with it so completely that I dreamed myself into their culture.  I was also struck by the manner in which a Native American culture handles education.  The grandfather is in charge of the boy’s learning.  He teaches by story-telling.  Here you see the grandfather in Sky Lodge teaching his grandson.  The girls would learn very different things from their mothers and grandmothers.

Skye lodge

I am also entranced by the life of the people expressed in dance and ritual.  Dance has deeper meaning than we white guys normally assign to it.  Dances could be magical.  Of course, the notion of a “rain dance” is the result of too much simplification in movie scripts and ignorant popular white culture.  Dance could connect you to the Earth, the Sky, and the Spirit World.  That’s what this most recent Paffooney shows.

Pueblo Bonito

So, you can see, I don’t really understand the concept of moderation when it comes to my obsessions in the world of colored pencil art.  Hanta Yo!  Clear the Way!  In a sacred manner I come!

child of fire

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A Night in the Pyramid

Ancient mysteries fascinate me.  I love the aspects of History that are ultimately unknowable and possibly horrific (depending entirely on your point of view).  I am filled with wonder about Egyptian beliefs about the purposes and powers of pyramids.  Did they function as resurrection machines for pharaohs?  Were they pathways to the stars?  Why were the royal chambers completely empty?  How old are they really?  These and so many other questions are there to think about.  And you can only answer them by using your imagination.  It is the stuff of stories that keeps me going… keeps me dreaming…

A Night in the Pyramid

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Google Paffooney Explained

goopafoo

 

I really don’t know if anyone anywhere has actually tried this, but if you like my art at all I can cure you of that if you follow this procedure;  Go to Google.  Do a picture search on the word “Paffooney”.  Nobody does Paffoonies but me.  You will get a gallery of my art, a few random portraits of women named Valerie Clarke, and aliens.  Most of it will be my stuff.

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The Dark Side

Francois

The thing about depression is that it really is not very funny.  That’s what makes it difficult for someone like me who relies on humor and wit to deal with every problem that attacks in life.   Sometimes you have to stand toe to toe with the devil and look him square in the eye.

Robin Williams’ death is one of those things that can send you on a downward spiral into depression and darkness.  Whenever someone loses the battle, you are reminded how hard it is to pull yourself out of the old black oubliette, the dark hole that is depression.  I had to take some time this weekend to mourn and be alone.  No one else can really do anything to help, other than to be there and be willing to listen.  People think you have to say something to help someone with depression, but, in truth, talking makes it worse.  If you tell the person you know what they are going through, or you know how hard it is, they might become violently upset.  Nothing is more personal or individual than suffering depression.

Fools

Now, I know some skeptical sorts of know-it-alls out there are going to immediately think, “What the hell makes this guy a so-called expert?”  And they are probably right to question it.  But here is what you probably didn’t know.    Of the five members of my immediate family, two of them have been hospitalized for depression a total of four times.  One incident involved self-inflicted injury.  We reacted quicker than is financially sensible the next three times.  Two members of my family suffer from bi-polar disorder, though only one of those has been diagnosed by a doctor, and only one of those was ever hospitalized.  We don’t get many visitors in our home any more.  My wife is rightly embarrassed by all the holes that have been punched through the plaster of the walls.  I have been thrown down the stairs once.  I have had to hide all the knives in the house three times.  One of my children had to dodge a knife that was thrown at them.  We have called the police on at least one occasion, and been called in by child protective services once.  Through it all, I have been the one faced with talking down the sufferer.  You look them in the eyes and see their pupils dilate, and sometimes the eye-twitch, and you know, “uh-oh, it’s time for the hurting again.”  There is nothing I can say.  There is nothing I can really do.  I just have to stay there (you can’t leave the sufferer alone for obvious reasons).  I have to keep the sufferer safe, and hopefully calm, and wait it out.   And I have to be ready to listen.  No jokes are allowed.  If you haven’t stopped reading this yet because it is too hard and ugly to consider, I can offer a little bit of light and hope.  I have gotten so good at doing this, that when a girl in one of my classes had a suicidal bi-polar meltdown, I was the one who knew what to do.  (All those hours spent with psychologists and therapists count for something.)  The principals and the counselors helped to keep her safe, but I’m the one who allowed her to vent and have her say, who took the time to listen and assure her that she really was being heard.  I’m also the one who got the thank-you and the apology for having to listen to how much she hated me and hated the school when she was at the bottom of the dark hole.  I never asked for any of this, but I have come away with a rare set of skills.  For now my children are safe and happy, and for now my worries seem to have come to a close… well, a temporary reprieve.  These problems never go away.  You get to keep them for a life time.   But they are not 24/7.

Hilda

 

So, you would think, with my ability to help others, I might not be totally without resources when battling my own depression.   You would, of course, be wrong.  You cannot beat back the darkness by yourself.  Long hours of staying in bed and hating your life do not help.  They are easy, but they do not help.  So, I have to take to the keyboard and write.  I fight back with words on paper.  And more than that, I have to write for others to read, even if I have written personal things that really aren’t other people’s business and will probably be used against me if I ever try to do something totally stupid like run for public office.  And from being a wordless wonder suffering in the bedroom yesterday, I have transformed myself into an eight-hundred-plus word fountain today.   To get through life I have to sing and dance and tell jokes and write and play harmonica and write and spend time with my kids and write and write some more.  Those things help when even the depression medication has no effect…  when your favorite movie comedian loses his own battle.

 

 

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The Butterfly

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I was but a child, a butterfly landed on my hand.  I wanted to capture it.  But I knew, if I closed my hand fast enough to snatch it out of the air as it tried to escape, I would utterly smash it.  The important thing, the most important thing still until this very day, is that I let it fly away.  I did not crush the butterfly.

(Not exactly a poem, but not prose either…)

DSCN4709

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Double Character Study; Mike Murphy and Blueberry Bates

Mike Murphy and Blueberry Bates are recurring characters in my hometown novels.  So far they have appeared in The Bicycle-Wheel Genius and Magical Miss Morgan, both of which are now published and available through Amazon.

The Bicycle-Wheel Genius is now available on Amazon through this link;

https://www.amazon.com/Bicycle-Wheel-Genius-Michael-Beyer/dp/1982984023/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1544204666&sr=8-1&keywords=michael+beyer+books+bicycle-wheel+genius

Magical Miss Morgan is available through this link;

https://www.amazon.com/Magical-Miss-Morgan-Michael-Beyer-ebook/dp/B0797GTRPV/ref=sr_1_39?ie=UTF8&qid=1544202254&sr=8-39&keywords=michael+beyer+books

The first book documents their star-crossed romance, beginning as ten-year-olds and following through until they are going on thirteen.  Blueberry is a girl with a terrible secret.  She is not like other girls and has to protect this secret, which will only become harder and harder to contain as time goes on.  She lives with her father who barely notices her, an aunt, her father’s sister, who knows the secret and punishes Blueberry for it, and her two older sisters who cherish her and dote on her, and probably are the only reason she is still alive.  Her mother, unfortunately, died when she was a baby.  But both books she appears in so far are comedies.   I will not go into the possible tragedies lying wait in ambush for her in her distant future.  The tragedies are simply not funny enough to be a part of everything.  Like many of my characters, she is based on people from my own life and experience.  She is a combination of a girl I once loved and a boy I once taught.  If that’s not confusing enough, I can add that Blueberry loves to draw, a detail that comes about because she is also partly based on me.  She particularly loves to draw pictures of Mike Murphy.  She might have drawn the next Paffooney (if she were a real person and not just some made-up girl that only lives in my weird old imagination).

Blue and her beau

Mike Murphy is a Norwall Pirate.  Not just any Pirate, but their best athlete, tree-climber, and wild-story believer.   He does everything the Pirate leader, Tim Kellogg, (the grand and glorious and mostly notorious Pirate leader) thinks up for him to do.  He believes every lie Tim tells him, and faithfully defends the Pirates and their leader, even when it gets him detention (again!) from their favorite teacher, Miss Francis Morgan.  He starts out running away from Blueberry, as any red-blooded, normal American boy would.  But he eventually lets her catch him, as any red-blooded, normal American boy would at about that age, the middle of the wonder years.  He becomes her best friend and greatest white-knight-sort-of protector, even though he is torn between that and loyalty to Tim and the Pirates and the lies they tell.

I am now planning a third book that will allow these two characters to adventure together.  I will call this novel Kingdoms Under the Earth.  It will begin with Blueberry being kidnapped by evil flu fairies that take her away to the dark parts of the fairy world under the surface of this world in a feverish coma. Mike Murphy must decide to follow her and rescue her, which he will do via the bad advice of a fairy friend, kissing Blueberry on the lips, contracting her disease, and sharing in her comatose suffering.  Then Mike’s best friend, Tim Kellogg, and his big sister Dilsey both agree that they must follow also to help rescue both Blueberry and Mike.  It will be a great adventure through illness, imagination, and the many hidden kingdoms of fairy magic that lie directly under our world.

Now, I suppose you are wondering why I am giving you details about characters in a book, or rather books, that I haven’t even finished writing yet.  Well, if you are dedicated enough to reading my loopy and boring old posts to get this far, it is probably safe to tell you that I don’t really know either.  I also want to find out.  What do the next sentences say?  Oh, yes.  Mike Murphy already exists as a Pirate in my published book Catch a Falling Star.  He is an established character that I have to twist and tweak into fitting into new stories.  Blueberry has been prancing around in my imagination and drawing colored-pencil Paffoonies since the 1970’s, but I am only now weaving her into the stories I have in me and are burning with a red-hot flame to get told.  So I’m not completely crazy to do this.  Only about ninety percent… right?

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Sean “Cudgel” Murphy

 

 

DScudgel

The kind of writing I do requires a special class of character that I refer to as a clown. I revealed one already that I used in my novel Snow Babies, that character is the unsuccessful businessman Harker Dawes. He is a pratfall clown, the kind used in Three Stooges movies. He is the subject of numerous physical abuses from other characters and from his own incompetent hand. He is funny because he always seems to survive these terrible episodes, and we are really, really glad that we are not him.
The second clown from Snow Babies, and also used in the novel I am now writing, The Bicycle Wheel Genius, is a dirty old man named Cudgel Murphy. He is a Mrs. Malaprop sort of character who says things that are wickedly mistaken, but not totally unintentional. He loves to drink (drinks other than water, coffee, or sodapop), and what he drinks makes him less than sociable. His is Irish by ancestry and by temperament. He is quick to fight, and slow to forgive, but able to laugh at himself when he discovers he is in the wrong. He loves to fight verbally with his daughter-in-law, Mary Murphy, and adores her children, his grandchildren, particularly Danny Murphy and little sister Dilsey.
The great love of his life was not his wife, who apparently died fairly young as a way of escaping the evil old man. It was instead a car, a 1955 Austin Hereford, an English-made car that Cudgel routinely says is, “the finest car made anywhere in the world in 1955.” She is his baby, and he keeps her running for more than thirty years despite driving her far too fast, too far, and with all sorts of evil brews in her gas tank in place of normal gasoline.
The Paffooney shows the evil old man posing with his wonder-car in front of the Congregational Church in Norwall, Iowa. His face, though unnaturally red by both liquid and temperamental fire looks far more innocent and harmless that it really is. One never knows for sure what is on his scrappy old mind, but you can be sure it will turn out to be funny in one way or another.
Clowns are essential to the kind of fiction I like to write. Sean “Cudgel” Murphy is a good one of those. So good, in fact, I may have to kill him off in the current book. He has a tendency to take over the story and make himself a hero.

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