Tag Archives: drawing

Numbers!

“In fourteen hundred and ninety two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue…” a very bad thing for the Native Americans it turned out, and in 1942 Hitler threatened the Jews of the world with annihilation at a speech in the Berlin Sportpalast in January of that year.  1942 and 1492.  What does it mean that my house number is 2914 Arkady Street?  Who is doomed to die?

Life on Mars

Don’t you think I know how crazy that is?  Numbers can’t possibly mean something like that.  Can they?  But all my life I have been plagued by a confluence of numerological signs and connected meanings.  And I don’t think I am alone.  Perhaps it is even a fairly common mental disorder.  Triskaidekaphobia is an irrational fear of the number 13.  And Friggatriskaidekaphobia is fear of Friday the 13th.  Is this a rational fear?  Maybe it was for the Knights Templar, because on Friday the 13th in 1307 Philip IV, King of France arrested virtually all the Knights, confiscating their fortunes and torturing them, then putting them to death after forcing them to confess to blasphemies.  And this was not the origin of the superstition.  There were 13 people present at the feast of Passover in the Upper Room on Nisan 13 (of the Hebrew calendar), the day before Jesus was executed on Good Friday.  When the 13th person left the other 12, that person was Judas Iscariot.  Either numbers do have consequences, or the world is just as crazy as I am.

Okay, so it’s the latter.  The world is just as crazy as I am.  But it is not all bad and dark omens.  I was born during a blizzard in Mason City, Iowa in 1956.  In 1985, the car I was driving had the mileage meter roll over to the point that the last four digits readable were 1956.  That same day I made love to a woman for the first time in my life.  I kept watching the odometer.  In 1994 the last four digits (in a different car) rolled to 1956 on the way home from a date at the Pizza Hut in Pearsall, Texas.  The woman I had dated married me the next January in 1995 and the first four digits turned to 1956 nine months later on the day my oldest son was born.

newwkid

And Douglas Adams fans like me all know that the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything is 42.  This magic number is revealed in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy trilogy that has more than three books in it.  Do I actually believe there is anything to this numerology claptrap?  Are we connected to the universe by numbers and equations through science, particularly physics?  Do numbers have mystical values that can be interpreted for our own benefit?  No.  Yes.  And maybe, I just don’t know for sure yet.  I believe in magic.  But I also believe in science.  Equations measure reality, but only through words can we define it.  Did I make you laugh?  Did I reveal myself to be totally bonkers?  Did I make you actually think?  Again… No.  Yes.  And maybe, I just don’t know for sure yet.  Unfortunately, there were 513 words in this essay… so I added this extra sentence.

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Filed under autobiography, humor, Paffooney

Paffooney Stories and Toony Cartoons

My House1 My house2 my house3 My House4Here is a page for collected stories that I mean to build on and expand.  It is my intention to file cartoons here and edit them and add more pages via posts.  So for a first attempt let me use an old cartoon that was rejected once by Heavy Metal magazine in the early 1980’s and rejected a second time by a cartoon magazine that no longer exists and I can’t even remember the name of…  I am thinking they had very poor taste in cartoon art anyway.

Now, of course, this a finished four-page one-shot.  It was intended for a magazine that sought this kind of full-color art and had an over-all science fiction and horror fantasy theme.  I was too light and colorful with this short for their needs.  Disney characters on the PJ’s might have been a legal problem too.  So I am left with an unsaleable example of my best colored-pencil art, done when I was still pretty much a clueless kid and not yet a teacher.  It was worth doing, but will never make me a single dime.

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Filed under cartoons, humor, Paffooney

Decompression

I got the word that my mother’s surgery went smoothly and she is fine.  Hopefully she will be out of the hospital soon.  I can breathe again.  There are numerous moments in life that make a person’s heart quicken and the “fight-or-flight” security program in the brain kicks in, making us breathe harder… making us sweat…   We wait endlessly for the threatening conditions to pass, and minutes feel like hours.

11062801_558004507676172_3499292867024087071_nAlan Watts was a genius who took Eastern philosophies and meditation and brought them to Western culture in a way that offers light and hope and freedom from fear.  I discovered him on YouTube and learned that even though he is dead, his thinking reaches out to me and gives me comfort in my inevitable face-off with Death.  Do you know Death?  He was that funny. yet disturbing character in some of Terry Pratchett’s funniest Discworld novels… the one that talks in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS because the weight of his words are so serious.  That particular face-off in the Hockey Game of Life is one that sooner or later I am bound to lose.  Everybody loses that one sometime… but only once.  After all, as hockey players go, Death is a superior center.

I think that if I can get one message across to other people before I lose that face-off and the hockey game ends, it needs to be this, “All people are the same.  No matter what color, what sex, what belief system… they all have equal worth.  I am a part of them, and they are a part of me.  As Alan Watts says, I am connected to everything.”

Alandiel

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Filed under inspiration, Paffooney, philosophy

Work in Progress

The book I am writing at the present time is for the moment called Stardusters and Lizard Men.  It follows the alien characters from Catch a Falling Star as they journey home after the failed invasion of Earth.  They have with them three Earthers, humans born on Earth, who have come along on the journey because they have fallen in love with members of the alien Telleron race of amphibianoids.  In this sample chapter, Davalon and the Telleron tadpoles, along with the Earther farm couple, the Morrells, who have been transformed into adults in child-like bodies, have made contact with a native lizard-person, a little lizard-girl named Sizzahl, and are trying to help save the dying planet of the lizard people.  Galtorr Prime, the dying world the Tellerons accidentally arrived at, is war-torn and nearly stripped of its livable environment.  Sizzahl is a child prodigy and is working inside the Bio-Dome of her late parents to try to solve the environmental crisis and save her planet.

Galtorr Primexvx

Canto Twenty-Seven – In the Bio-Dome

The delicate creature was four-legged and long-necked.  It looked a lot like Bambi to Alden if Bambi had been a reptilian creature with hexagonal violet-colored scales all over it.  It had large indigo eyes that made it look fawn-like and vulnerable.

“It is called a zhar-doe,” said Sizzahl sadly.  She was standing next to Alden and Gracie with the creature in front of them.  She reached out and stroked the side of its Bambi-like head fondly.  “It is the last of its kind, and when it dies, its species will be extinct.”

“Is Zahr-Doe its name?” Gracie asked.

“It is the species.  Why would you give it a name?  When we had vast herds of them, they were a domesticated food animal.”

“Will you eat this one?” asked Alden.   He still had his hands clamped over his private parts, but he reached out with his left hand to touch the thing’s velvety-soft ear.  It was an exquisitely beautiful creature.

“Only if it is a last resort.  It is too beautiful and precious to be butchered without great need.”  Sizzahl was petting the creature tenderly.  Hard to believe it didn’t have a name already.

“Is there no way the species can be saved?” asked Gracie, stroking the creatures neck with both hands.  Alden had loved Gracie since the moment he had first met her, but now, looking at her standing in the Bio-dome’s artificial forest of dying trees and plants petting the Bambi-thing, he noticed how lovely she looked as a completely nude young girl in the middle of a browning pastoral setting.  He was attracted to her in spite of the fact that her body was now a child’s body, but it was so much more than that.  Gracie’s simple, loving concern for a gentle creature of another world… well, it was looking more directly at what he knew to be Gracie’s soul than he had ever done before.

“I have the cloning technology at my finger tips,” said Sizzahl.  “This place was my parents’ attempt to save our natural world from the predations of the greedy and ruthless creatures that dominated our society.  But, the question becomes, should we save the species by cloning it if we cannot feed it and the new creatures will only starve, suffer, and die?”

“We brought you the plants you needed, didn’t we?” Alden asked.

“You did.  I thought being on the space station would protect those plants and I could bring them here to grow new food sources.”

“Is something wrong with the plants?”  Alden shivered, not with the cold of being completely naked in an alien place, but with a sudden fear that he already knew the answer to the question.

“They are all blighted and dying.  I asked the Tellerons to verify it with the instruments, but I’m nearly certain.”  Sizzahl was actually crying.  Alden saw tears in her snake’s eyes.  It was difficult to comprehend a lizard-person crying, but the little-girl alien was so human-like as she was crying…

Gracie, bless her Iowegian heart, wrapped both her arms around Sizzahl and held her in a comforting hug.

“My goodness, girl,” Gracie said, “You are warm and soft to hug.  You are more like us than the Tellerons are.”

“My people are warm-blooded just like yours.  We are not really reptiles, you know.  We are more saurian… like your birds or your dinosaurs on planet Earth.”

“How do you know so much about Earth?” asked Alden.

“Well, I am a genius among my kind.  I have what you would call an I.Q. of about 195 in the terms of your science on Earth.  Besides, the alien visitors that used to come to our world, like the Sylvani or the Zeta Reticulans have brought specimens of your people here for study and to perform certain special tasks that aided in their off-world agendas.”

“Earth people have been to your planet before?” asked Gracie, cuddling the lizard-girl close to her warm heart.

“Oh, yes, and I imagine some of our people have been taken to your world too.  The governments of both our planets have been contacted long, long ago by space-faring races.”

“Really?”  Alden was skeptical.  Walter Cronkite and Bryant Gumbel never said anything about aliens contacting the government.  “Why haven’t we been told about this?”

“Judging by your television broadcasts, I believe your government believes the average person is too stupid and easily upset to comprehend the truth.  Our leaders were like that for many years before your leaders even were told.  There will come a crisis point one day, though, that people will have to find out.  Here it came shortly before we started to destroy ourselves with unending war for profit.”

“You are going to save your planet, aren’t you, Sizzahl?” Gracie asked, suddenly seeming alarmed.

“I don’t know.  Sometimes I think they are not worth saving.  Sometimes a people on a planet can become so self-centered and terrible that they don’t deserve to survive.  The alien visitors gave up on us a few years ago and left.”

“We are alien visitors,” said Alden, “and we aren’t giving up on you yet.”

“You are not afraid I might eat you or take advantage of you?”

“Of course not,” said Gracie.  She patted Sizzahl on the back in a way Alden knew was meant to be reassuring.

“I do want to take advantage of you, though.”

“Oh?” asked Gracie.  “How?”

“Your DNA is somewhat compatible with my own.  Not yours, Grace, because you are a simuloid now, not a real person.  I want some of Alden’s DNA to use to make a fusion race, half Galtorrian, half Earth human.”

“You mean you want me to make babies with you?” Alden gasped.

“Not the way you think.   I want to make them in a sealed jar and grow them in vats.  I will just need samples of your blood and tissues.  It doesn’t even need to hurt.”

Alden felt a bit shaken.  Could he do that?  Or was Sizzahl right to suggest her people deserved to go extinct?  And what did she mean when she suggested Gracie wasn’t real?

At that moment, Davalon and Tanith came in looking sad.  Both were naked.  Both were holding each other’s hands.

“We have bad news,” said Tanith.  “The plants we saved from the space station are all diseased according to the instruments.”

Sizzahl only nodded, then buried her scale-covered face in Gracie’s shoulder to cry more loudly.

*****

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Filed under humor, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, science fiction

Art Self-Edited

I have been working at illustration and drawing for the majority of my life, but it took computer technology and digital photography to allow me to maximize the use of my abilities.  Let me go through a couple of case in points.

Red3redhair3

The Red-Haired Girl picture is a good example of what I can do.  I originally drew the picture to illustrate a Charlie Brown poem.   Here is the poem if you don’t remember it.  (A convenient excuse to re-post something and fill this post with words already written.)

Little Red-Haired Girl

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

That little red-haired girl, so cute, so nice

You only looked and looked from afar

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

You could’ve held her hand

You could’ve walked her home from school

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

She never got your Valentine

At least, you forgot to sign your name

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

No hope of marriage now, nor children for old age

Happily ever after has now long gone

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

Now every love poem is a sad poem

And the world is blue and down

You never told her that you loved her…

You never told her that you loved her…

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown.

You may not see what I did without looking at the two pictures very closely.  The better, more brightly-lit photo is not the answer.  I originally created the Red-Haired Girl as a Charley-Brown-y creation complete with a bigger than natural head, a Charley-Brown head.10305044_602428713227020_8427155857664240183_n

I have ulterior motives for my evil cartoon manipulations.  I like this image I have created very much, in fact, one might say that I have fallen in love with it just a bit…  Pygmalion-like.  I wanted to use the image to illustrate Anita Jones, a character from my book Superchicken.  Anita is the fictional re-imagining of a girl that I had a deep and abiding crush on (possibly still existing today, though she is now a grandmother in real life.)  She is literally my little red-haired girl.  So what did I do?  Look closely.  I lovingly shrank her head.  Yes, like the headhunters of old, I used the paint program on my computer to shrink it, re-attach it, and make it more human-like.  Realistic proportions, though only a very slight change by actual percentages, make a realistic difference in how real the viewer perceives her to be.

I know you probably think I am full of goofy-gas to make such claims.  If you don’t see the difference in the first example, perhaps you will see it here.  Compare these two David Copperfield pictures carefully.  Look at Little Emily’s head.

David C David C2

You don’t have to believe me, but it does make a difference.

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Broken People Parts (A goofy poem from messed-up Mike)

sunnyface

Sometimes people break,

And then, they fall apart,

And it takes a jigsaw master,

To Puzzle back their heart.

And if a foot falls off,

Quite busted on Monday’s hump

They may be legless, headless, limp

And lying in a lump.

But no face is ever busted

To a point of no repair,

And lips are pasted back in place

With a smile that wasn’t there.

sunnyface2

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Filed under humor, Paffooney, poetry

Buried Treasure

Spring cleaning is how I have spent at least a portion of my lonely invalid’s Spring Break.  I get to walk the dog and clean the house while my family is enjoying the somewhat chilly beaches of Florida’s panhandle.  Well, it isn’t all misery.  As I was cleaning in the library upstairs, I came across a set of drawings from the 1980’s that I had been looking everywhere for.  You have no idea what kind of treasure exists under stuff until you start putting stuff in other places.  I picked stuff up, and low and behold… treasure.  How long since I last moved that stuff?   I have no idea.  Stuff moves around in the library constantly.  Some of the books fly off the shelves in the middle of the night, I swear it.  But this stuff wasn’t books, so it was becoming a permanent accretion of stuff.  Not yet icky stuff, but it was painter stuff, brushes and oil paints and mixing bowls and acrylic paints and linseed oil and all kinds of stuff that can become very icky in an upstairs room in Texas with no air conditioning.

So, let me give you a look at what I found before I start trying to turn it into writer’s stuff and Paffooney posts.

Bobby

This first picture is called Bobby, because Bobby Zeffer sat for the portrait of the boy.  (You are aware that I don’t use people’s real names in my work.  So, Bobby, if you read this post and see this picture, you will have to remember that it is really you.)  (No chance of that, though.  Bobby is not illiterate, but I know he hates to read.)  I could also call it Horatio T. Dogg, because that is the name of the talking dog detective who smokes a pipe and wears a hat and was the main character of a mystery novel that became too silly to finish.  It turned out to be one of those stories where I reached the point of having a Tyrannosaurus leap out of a wormhole and eat all the main characters.  I gave up on that story rather abruptly.

Long John Silver

The second picture is rather obviously Robert Newton playing the part of Long John Silver in the Disney version of Treasure Island.  I was still in my twenties when I drew this.  I was inspired to try my hand at further portraiture because the picture of Bobby turned out to actually look like him.

kids

The third picture is the reason I was desperate to find these old drawings.  It is one of my prescient pictures.  I drew it in the 1980’s from an image that haunted my dreams as a young teacher.  I later realized how remarkable it was while I was teaching in Cotulla in about 2000.  The girl was in my seventh grade fifth period English class.  I can’t tell you how many times I had to dig this picture out and stare at her face.  Almost twenty years before, six or seven years before she was even born, I drew this girl, and it looks exactly like her.  I became even more mystified by this portrait when the boy walked into my classroom last year.  He was from Africa.  Eritrea to be precise.  He was a wonderful, soft-spoken, highly-intelligent boy with a deep Christian faith in God.  I almost went crazy searching for this picture so I could compare what I had drawn to the real boy.  It turns out he has a bit less hair in real life and a small scar above his left eye.  How did I not see that in my dream?

flute cover

The last picture was designed as a cover for my graphic novel Hidden Kingdom.  I have recently revisited that project and I am thinking now more strongly than ever of trying to finish it.  I can do a lot of drawing with my arthritic hands as long as I only do a little bit at a time.  And this whole drawing thing, this raging addiction, has finally become fun again now that I am retired and have the time to do stuff.  Not icky stuff… Treasure!

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Filed under humor, old art, Paffooney

Architecture for Clowns

Try not to be upset with me for drawing a naked lady. You see, she is not really a lady, she is a caryatid, a stone pillar for holding up a building.  Besides, I have been recently very ill, and drawing naked ladies makes me happy, even though it is a sin and means I will probably burn in hell.  I am a hopeless sinner in this regard.  I got kicked off Pinterest for liking an oil painting of a naked lady.  I think it was a painting by William Adolphe Bouguereau.  How could I be so terrible?  You should check out my post about his sinful, horrible paintings so you can see how terrible I am for yourself. (Bouguereau)  carytidOf course, This post is not about naked ladies at all, so why am I fuming and ranting and telling all my darkest secrets about that?

This post is about architecture, about giving structure to things, about holding things together and holding things up.  Is it clever that I drew this picture of an ornate pillar and placed it in this post so it looks like it is standing on later paragraphs and holding up the introduction?  I find weird surrealist things like that help me write stuff that makes a few people laugh.  It helps me because I can focus on nonsensical side-stuff like that (mixed up with obscure puns and alliterations like “pillar” and “placed” that, when cooked together with goofy rhythms in over-long sentences end up sounding funnier than they really are), and then I can say stuff that is actually funny because I don’t realize how wrong, or weird, or silly some of these words I am futzing it all up with truly are.  (And I am amazed that the Pinterest police haven’t come and kicked me off WordPress for using a word like “futzing”, even though they don’t know what it means.  Heck, even the spell-checker didn’t object to the word!)

But someone like me who is trying to be funny needs structure more than anyone else you can think of.  Why?  Because the sad-clown-crying-on-the-inside is so very true.  The dark dips of depression… pain, illness, and more pain… family stress from others in my family who also suffer…  That’s what makes the laughing so very necessary.  You need the lighter stuff to fill up the room (somewhat like a really big fart) because you depend on the sheer buoyancy of it to lift the entire house up and keep it from sinking to the very center of the earth.  (And the stink of it can also help keep you awake when otherwise you might never get out of bed again)… (But please don’t light any matches around my house.)

So, in conclusion, this stuff I write does have basic structures, basic rules.  It has a beginning, a middle, and an end.  It has a theme, a point that needs to be made,  And then it needs to end with some kind of a kicker line or punch line… because when that finally hits me square in the face (like a pie thrown by a pie-whacker clown), it helps me remember… I am still alive, and I can still laugh about it.

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Filed under humor, Paffooney, surrealism

Wild Rides in My Own Head

road trip

Of late I have encountered many roadblocks on the road to creativity.  Illness gets in the way.  It is hard to think when I have too much arthritis pain.  I have a hard time composing anything on days like yesterday when my blood sugar is out of whack.  I haven’t been chased by car-driving crocodiles in red fright-wigs and green race cars.  At least, not while I was awake.  I am trying to follow a writing schedule that has me editing a novel for a contest in April, writing two other novels simultaneously, a set of short stories, and this daily blog that I am trying to average 500 words per day in every day  (and succeeding now for roughly 41 straight days) (some days I write less words, but some days I go way over the stated limit).  I end up squeezing the toothpaste tube of new ideas from both ends until the big wad in the middle finally bursts and gets white gobbets of creative-idea paste on everything in the room.  I will admit that I mangle a metaphor or two, and give meaning to random blobs of description merely for the sake of adding more words.  And what is this bit about, then?  Clearly I am thinking about how I think and it is not a pretty sight.  Sometimes my children bounce out of the rumble seat towards the river of man-eating fish, and I have to depend on the odd three-eyed alien tootling along in a space-doughnut to catch him or her in the nick of time.  But sometimes, too, I am the rabbit, calmly watching from the sidelines hoping not to get run over but too fascinated to look away from the slap-dash slap-stick chase scene that is my actual life.  This particular bit of tooth-paste squeezing is known as free writing, where I just keep stringing words and phrases together for as long as I can keep my aching fingers from falling off.  I make corrections as I go, but there is no outline here, no discernible pattern, and very little logical coherence.  Like the picture Paffooney, once it gets started, it just goes.  And goes and goes.  I have bounced over broken bridges and landed squarely on the pavement on the other side more than once of late.  I paid the tax on the house and managed to remain a homeowner for another year.  I fought off numerous bill-collecting crocodiles set on me by credit-card banks who are after me to pay off mountains of accumulated debt and interest after my multiple career-ending illnesses.  I have lawyers helping me with debt reduction, the step before bankruptcy, which is also probably the step before stepping off the ledge at the top of the Chrysler Building.   I continue to draw stuff that makes little or no visual sense, and post them here to further delight, dazzle and delude you.  And, of course, I have the audacity to label this word free-for-all as humor… but I have reached five hundred and five words.

Thaumaturge

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Filed under aliens, artwork, humor, magic, Paffooney

The Koming of the Klowns

klowns

Here you see me doing some serious art-starting.  I am working on ideas about how clowns can be compassionate.  I am hoping this is true, because I am one… a clown, I mean.  But I have some serious noodle and doodle work to do.  So I will start with a doodle of Klown Kops from Klowntown’s finest.  More will be explained later… and more will be doodled too.

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Filed under clowns, compassion, doodle, humor, new projects, Paffooney Posts