Fantasy Worlds

If you saw my post yesterday, you have probably already noticed I am not in love with the real world (and for those of you who naturally assume every conspiracy theorist is a nut job, I don’t love the world as I perceive it through my goofy senses).  So what is the alternative?  How about the world of the imagination?

Like many youths of the late 70’s and early 80’s, I trained my imagination with the Dungeons and Dragons game from Gary Gygax and TSR.  I played first with my brother and two sisters, then with kids from the school where I first taught (middle schoolers when I taught them, but mostly high schoolers when they played in the vast worlds of my dungeon-master’s imagination).  I first started buying and painting metal miniatures.  Later I supplemented them with plastic figures, paper cut-outs, maps,  and dungeon tiles.

fantasy world1

I can now lay out a pretty impressive scene to play out the stories that I and my three goofy kids love to spin.  Of course, you know that, although I lay out the potential story as the dungeon master, the players each pick a character and input their own directions and choices through that character’s point of view.

fantasy world2

The characters face the monsters and problems they must overcome, and they must decide when to hit it, when to kill it, or when to try to charm her way through it.

fantasy world3

After the monsters are dead you have to choose again.  Do you cut up the dead Cyclops and eat it?  Do you accept the gold from the princess who is thanking you for saving her and her children?  Do you kill the bratty kids and take all their gold earrings and arm bands?  Of course, the DM tries to squelch option three.

fantasy world4

And then you gather up the group again in the castle courtyard, and away you go.  Another adventure.  Another problem to solve.  It is so much easier than car repairs and school schedules and dealing with a dog that is a walking poop and spare-hair factory.  Dungeons and Dragons life is so much more heroic and fulfilling than real life.

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And then Mom shows up and says the game is over for today.  Time to wash the dishes, vacuum the carpet downstairs, and walk the dang pooping dog.  “Go away, Mom!  We are busy learning about the important things in life.”

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Finding the Truth

Ted Cruz articlelaOu4vk

I am an intelligent human being and I understand a lot about science and how to do research.  Unfortunately, I am also now retired with time to burn when I can’t make much use of any physical activity other than surfing the web and finding out things I have always been wondering about.  I say unfortunately because I really dislike most of what I have discovered and found corroborating evidence for.  I have become, for lack of a less loaded-with-excess-baggage sort of term, a conspiracy theorist.    Aliens did crash near Roswell, New Mexico in 1947, and the American government did recover the craft and alien crew.  JFK was murdered by a hit squad working for and with the CIA, and George H.W. Bush, whose father was a Nazi supporting Adolf Hitler during World War II, was most likely the event controller on scene that day, although he claims he wasn’t in Dallas that day or wasn’t even a CIA operative at the time, despite photos and a letter from J. Edgar Hoover that disprove both of those claims.   And most disturbing of all, the attack on the U.S. on 9-11 was a fake terrorist attack perpetrated by the elements of the American Government that Eisenhower warned us about, calling them the “military-industrial complex”.    Three buildings fell down in a manner that suspiciously looks like a controlled demolition done by professional demolition experts, and only two of those buildings were struck by airplanes.  The sheer weight of evidence generated by the cover-up alone guarantees that we are looking at an event papered over with falsehoods that we are expected to accept and not question.  Is it a coincidence that George W. Bush was president and his brother Marvin Bush was in charge of a company that did security for the World Trade Center complex?   Architects, airline pilots and plane manufacturers, and law enforcement personnel have all ruined their careers (and some even lost their lives) by expressing publicly their doubts over the government’s version of events.

Here is a Youtube video you might want to check out if this is totally new to you;

9-11 WTC -0151 04

So what does this mean for pointless little people like me?

We are increasingly being treated as farm animals.  Rich people have taken over control of our government and society so that profit-takers can continue to do whatever it takes to continue reaping all the rewards while we do all the work.  Keep in mind that pigs and calves are kept in pens where their movements are completely constricted, not even able to turn around and face the other direction, all so their muscles are never exercised, and their meat remains as tender as possible.  We have no say in what happens to us.  We are merely here to do the work, and be as productive (and possibly tasty) as possible for the least amount of compensation possible.

Ted Cruz as Grandpa Munster is such an apt image for this problem.  He is a laughable clown throwing Texas cow poop all over the American government.   But he is also an un-dead blood-sucker with no human soul (at least that he hasn’t already sold to someone).   Will he be the next president of the United States?  I sincerely hope not.  He is totally owned by the powers in the darkness (dark money providers like the Koch Brothers who are so dark that the Koch Brothers are probably only the outward face of the problem and someone else is behind the scenes).  But it appears to me that he is only the joke candidate that is there only to guarantee that we are forced to choose either Jeb Bush or Hillary Clinton, both of whom accept and represent financial interests and bankers who melted down the economy in 2008.

The scariest thing on the web, I think, is the message in the Georgia Guide Stones.  Who put them there?  What do they mean?  Here is what Wikipedia says are the inscriptions on the stones;

A message consisting of a set of ten guidelines or principles is engraved on the Georgia Guidestones in eight different languages, one language on each face of the four large upright stones. Moving clockwise around the structure from due north, these languages are: EnglishSpanishSwahiliHindiHebrewArabic,Chinese, and Russian.

  1. Maintain humanity under 500,000,000 in perpetual balance with nature.
  2. Guide reproduction wisely — improving fitness and diversity.
  3. Unite humanity with a living new language.
  4. Rule passion — faith — tradition — and all things with tempered reason.
  5. Protect people and nations with fair laws and just courts.
  6. Let all nations rule internally resolving external disputes in a world court.
  7. Avoid petty laws and useless officials.
  8. Balance personal rights with social duties.
  9. Prize truth — beauty — love — seeking harmony with the infinite.
  10. Be not a cancer on the earth — Leave room for nature — Leave room for nature.

How are we supposed to get the world population from 7 billion down to 500 million?  We are not going to murder everyone not a U.S. citizen, are we?  Or everyone with a economic worth below a million dollars?  I would like for some of these guidelines to come into play.  4, 5, 7, 8, and 9 are all very good ideas.  1, 2, 3, and 10 all chill me down to the marrow in my bones.  I am not cancer.  And now might not be a good time to be a farm animal… particularly not Daffy Duck.

So make of it what you will.  I believe these things are at least partially true.  Am I a loon?  Yes.  But don’t let that keep you from looking into these things yourself.


Guidestones article

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I am trying to hold everything together.  I have made my plans, including plans for dealing with irrational things that some people might do.  And so, it is time to go visit the rabbit people.


The Rabbit people represent the people and personalities from my past, fortifying me with good memories and pleasant thoughts.  I depend on my interior mental life more and more as my body breaks down and my present life is more and more limited.


The hero is a younger me, leading the way to places I have been before and ready to defend me with old truth.


But there is no such thing as a perfect sanctuary.  No castle of willpower and mental toughness is ever impregnable.


A thousand things now assail me.  Unpaid tax bills, surprise expenses, continued struggles with illness, and other horrible goblins of chance and bad fortune continue to hound me.



The battle is not over.  I have not yet lost, though I have not won yet either.


Filed under humor, Paffooney, rabbit people

Rabbit People

castle carrot

On days when I am still recovering from life-altering blows, I often try to find new realms, alternate realities to live in.  (Retreating into a fantasy world is one of the reasons she gave for leaving.)  And since, as a youth in Iowa, I raised rabbits for a 4-H project, I know rabbits better than I do human people.  Rabbits are people too.  So, I have been walking among the rabbit people.  Seriously, bunnies are better people than most human people.  They are not trying to profit off you.  They are not trying to get everything they can off you.  They are merely there to wiggle their whiskers, sniff for food, poop, gnaw on stuff, and make more bunnies.

Mr. R Rabbit

I often see myself as a rabbit person.  In cartoon form, I am the bunny-man teacher known to the Animal Town School System as Mr. Reluctant Rabbit.

As a teacher, I am always pulling out carrots of irony and gnawing on the ends of them in front of students.  If they complain that eating food in class is supposed to be against the rules, I ask them, “Do you want a carrot of irony?”

“Oh, no, thank you sir.”

“They are good for your eyesight as well as your insight.  You really ought to chew on healthier things like that.”

“Oh, no sir,” they say.  “We prefer Hot Cheetos.”

And so, I taught on like that… like a rabbit, fast and frumious (a Jabberwocky sort of word), and never really bit anybody.  Teaching is like that.  You offer the good healthy stuff to nourish their little animal minds, and they always choose the junk food instead.


And so life goes on like that.  Looking to rabbit people to ease my pain and need for good, wholesome carrots of irony.

I have started on the final edit of my novel The Bicycle-Wheel Genius.  One of the main characters in the book is Tommy Bircher’s pet rabbit Millis.   During the course of the story about invading aliens, Secret Agent Robots from the CIA, and making friends when you need friends, Millis is turned into a rabbit-man by a lab accident.  He teaches Tommy that you don’t have to be human to be a good, caring, self-sacrificing person.  He also teaches him to eat his carrots and greens like a good boy should.

So, I will spend more time with the rabbit people and heal a little bit.  That is what you do with the tragedy that life brings you.  You spin it into whole cloth, making humor and poetry out of everything bad that happens… wrapping yourself up in a comforting blanket of lies (you can also call those fiction stories), and eating a little chicken soup on a cold day to heal your soul.  (Oh, I forget, rabbits often gag on chicken soup.  Let’s make that bean soup with carrot chunks.)

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Cold, Hard Truth


At the snowy end of a cold, hard week… I have some facts to face.  As a family we are suffering from anxiety disorders, depression, and other mental health issues.  And my family is coming apart at the seams.  You may have noticed that much of the joy… the love, and life, and laughter… has gone out of my recent posts.  We are breaking up.  We are not staying together as a family.  I am not spending much time feeling sorry for myself about it.  I have known the potential consequences for quite some time.  You can’t pull the family wagon over the next hill when one horse is pulling to the west, another goes east, and two more go south.  Families often come apart with age.  Children leave the nest.  Sometimes you push them out so they will start flying on their own.  But sometimes they plummet to the ground and break a wing.  Sometimes they break two wings when foxes are prowling nearby.  We have had too much pushing and plummeting this week.  Words have been spoken that I wish were not.  Fires have been lit not to keep us warm, but to burn things down.  And the snow is still coming down.  I will be all right.  I do not fly away when the winter comes.  I will stand by my children for as long as my legs will hold me upright.  And if you have read this far in this gloomy, grisly post, don’t be sad for me.  Happy times we all enjoy make good memories, but the hard times hammer us into stronger, more tempered steel.  Life is a great forge, and we are all under the hammer of God.


Remember, the cardinal is my personal symbol because he is the little, bright-red bird who doesn’t fly away when the winter comes.  Cardinals bring warm red colors to coldest of winter days.

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“Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune”

Ra When I was a teenager and suffering from a terrible secret, I first began to see and hear invisible people.  I know this is not normal.  In fact, it comes under the heading of “wacko-stupid-maniac-loony”.   The first one was my friend the faun.  Now, for those of you who do not know, a faun is a mythological creature in the shape of a man (or possibly boy, or even little girl) with the legs and tail and horns of a goat (or possibly kid).  This creature is a sensual being in the Dionysian tradition.  Wine, women, and song so to speak.

When he first came to me it was a snowy winter’s night, long about December of my 17th year.  At that time I was still repressing the memory of what happened to me out behind the neighbor’s house when I was ten.  But I guess I knew I needed help in reaching out to others.  I was lonely and convinced that for some terrible unknown reason I was a horrible creature not worthy of love.  Then he came rapping at my window.  He was kneeling there in the snow, outside my upstairs bedroom window, on the roof of the front porch of the house, naked except for the goat fur on his legs.  But he wasn’t shivering.  After all, he wasn’t real.  No one but me would ever see him.  He was grinning at me.

“You aren’t going to leave me out here in the snow, are you, stupid?” he said.

“Who and what are you?” I asked, as I opened the window.  The snow was shining with a silvery, blue-white light that originated with the street light out in front of the house.

“I am Radasha,” he said.  “I am your faun… the part of you that feels things and needs things… the part of you you have stupidly been pretending doesn’t exist.”

All right, I know it sounds crazy.  But I needed him in my life.  Elwood P. Dowd had an invisible white rabbit.  Why couldn’t I have a faun?  And it was a very, very good thing.  He taught me how to laugh, and how to love… how to actually live.  And I know he has always been inside me, not really separate from me.  In many ways he is the real me.  But crazy people have their own set of priorities.  And when I was a confused teenager whose personal self-concept had been sexually violated by another, older boy… Radasha was mine.  An invisible friend to talk to.  One who could explain everything… make me laugh and make me happy.  And there is a sound to that.  Do you know the piece by Debussy that this post is titled after?  It is my favorite piece of music in all the world.  And it tells the sweet-sad story of Radasha and me.

Island Girl2z

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Why Space-girls Come from Iowa


Yes, Iowa is a State with very little going on.  Not overly populated.  Not a center of arts and culture and the avant garde.  In fact, it is a State so literally boring that it is a perfect place for someone like me with cancer of the imagination to live.  I grew up in the town of Rowan, Iowa.  275 people if you count the squirrels (and believe me, some of the squirrels are premium corn-nuts).  I confess to peopling the place with the characters and creatures that welled up from the crazy, dark depths of my imagination.  Yes, they were real people, but the things I knew about their secret lives as international spies and alien invaders masquerading as humans were probably not provably accurate.

There was a time when alien potato people gave me an embryo to guard that would be raised as a human being.  When I showed it to my friends, they claimed it was a carved potato with spherical-headed pins for eyes.  Now how were they going to pass off a carved potato as a human being when they wanted him to take his place as a Russian cosmonaut to interfere with the space programs of two countries?  And how did they expect a twelve-year-old boy to make a carved potato grow up to look and act like a human being?  Alien potato people never adequately explain themselves.

And Iowa girls are something else that you have to see to believe.  Are they pretty?  Well, I went to Moo-U, Iowa State University in Ames, Iowa.  Why did they always call it Moo U. or Cow College?  Well, more than one of my friends told me that it wasn’t because it was an agriculture and mechanics sort of college.  Oh, it was definitely that.  But they suggested all the girls at Moo U. were fat and desperate and at college to get an M.R.S. degree with a specialty in ball-and-chain.  I must admit to being chased by a couple of cow-shaped co-eds, but I always found Iowa girls to be absolutely fascinating.  I always imagined them in bikinis and nearly nude, even though, with Iowa weather, there is really only about fifteen minutes a year in August when you could really say we had bikini weather.

I was thirteen in 1969 when Neil Armstrong first stepped on the moon.  My dreams were space fantasies.  My connections with alien invaders were nearly exposed by the potato-people’s embryo snafu, but most of my day-dreams took me to Mars alongside Alicia Stewart, the prettiest girl in my sixth-grade classroom.  She was always wearing a bikini when we explored Mars… usually underneath her space suit… her see-through glass-and-plastic space suit.

So, as I claimed in the the title, space-girls come from Iowa.  At least, in my mind they do.  In my feverish retro teen-aged imagination they do.  And if I can continue to successfully put fiction into print before I die, you will probably see a lot more of them.

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