R.H. Snow's Blog, page 43

THE SCI-FI ROAD: Arkansas Moon

WIDE as the TEXAS SKY: Storm, 09/04/22, Limestone County Texas

The Lover of Life

I Am the Lover of Life,

The Great I Am of Thought and Deed;

The Logos of My Voice creates

The deeps and swirling Seas -

I Am Creator of Worlds,

The One who breathes the dust to flesh;

The beating of My Heart ignites

The beauties of the Earth -

I Am the Father of All,

The One who Hopes when all is Lost;

The God who dies to save his Child

The Man upon the Cross -

My Gold was turned to dross…

Your love is worth My loss

What Would Elizabeth Barrett Browning Do?

Being sick is stupid and I hate being sick.

It’s not the kind of sick where you have a really cool disease, like your friends come to your house to sympathize and stare at you from a respectful distance - or if you’ve really scored the sickness lottery, the kind of disease that makes them bring you ice cream. No, this is the kind of sickness that makes everyone else want you to hide and be disgusting in isolation, one that brings coughs and sniffles and squashed paper tissues.

My Father never got sick this way. His body was a Temple: he fumigated it regularly with Tobacco, sacrificed blood-rare steaks to it, then burned away the impurities with a well-measured two fingers of Whiskey. He swore this worked, right up til the end when Cancer took him, but he was otherwise healthy except for that part. My Mother, on the other hand, was one with Healthful Living; she exercised regularly, did not partake of the Devil’s Brew, and ate Wheat Germ sprinkled on Bean Sprouts. Of course, she was sick all the time, eternally at war with first diabetes, then emphysema, and still somehow managed to live joyfully into her eighties. This taught me a valuable lesson:

Nature doesn’t care.

It pays to not poison oneself, but one can do everything right and still manage to come down with various conditions. This may seem unfair, and it is: in a perfect world, people who care for their bodies should get Karmic Brownie points for effort, but they don’t. The most conscientious of Health Objectors wither and perish in their prime, while unrepentant winos smoke a pack of Luckies a day and live to be one hundred.

This unfairness brings me to my present state.

My body never met a bacteria it didn’t like. From my very earliest days, my Earthly Temple has been a luxury Hotel for various forms of tiny life, a welcoming and accepting place where any Virus or Amoeba can find warmth and shelter. And it’s not enough for me to invite them in one time - I am the Queen of Repeat Business for Baddies. You had Chicken Pox once? Pshaw, you amateur; I’ve had Chicken Pox three times - twice as an adult.

This has led well meaning friends and relatives to inundate me with supplements. An Alphabet of Vitamins from A to Zinc grace my table; my kitchen is a smorgasbord of greens and veggies, bursting with healthful produce and free-range eggs. We’re awash in non-sweetened sparkling waters and herbal teas - and it shows. My skin and hair are absolutely glowing with health as I lay here suffering from whatever latest Microbe has decided to come visit.

So with that in mind, I have decided if I can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

I can feel sorry for myself, it’s true; being sick is no fun. But I have decided to visualize the virtues of Life lived as an all-inclusive Resort for Wayward Viruses. I can either cry about it, or I can take advantage of it: I have the perfect excuse to write and illustrate in solitude, uninterrupted by the duties that plague the Healthy. I also have an excuse to become the next Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She lived a life of tragic ebullience, surrounded by adoring fans and ardent poets, and died fashionably while in Florence. But how does one invoke that spirit of Fragile Dissolution without becoming a needy lump? One must ask: What Would Elizabeth Barrett Browning Do?

Just look at her. Elizabeth Barrett Browning is fixing to sneeze, she has dark circles under her eyes, and she doesn’t care a whit. She’s fabulous and she knows it.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning would:

Wear something awesome while being sick. Lace is a must, as it bespeaks fragility and delicacy while Leopard Print speaks of the scandalous luxury of being in bed during the day.

Sit upon a pile of brocade pillows. This is not negotiable. Lean back from time to time and rest upon them, looking ravishable while thinking of plot devices and romances.

Have a fancy cup from which to drink hot beverages. It should look appropriately writerly, and be constantly filled with hot tea or flavoured coffee. A wine glass is appropriate only if church ladies are not coming over - if church ladies are inbound, the wine must be disguised in a Jelly Jar, and mislabelled as Sweet Tea.

Snacks must be not crumbly, as that disturbs the cleanliness of the bed. The only exemption for this is cake, because it is cake and it gets a pass.

Have a lovely bed desk with a flower. Even if you are too sick to write, lay out a pen and paper just to look good. Extra points if you scribble Haiku in curly script, just to impress people.

Bear cheerfully the martyrdom of washing dishes and laundry while sick. It still has to be done… make it count by thinking of Heaven, where all clothes are already folded, and every dish is already clean.

Flaunt your accomplishments. Make certain to post it so people can see you are not merely slacking - be an Author! Make words!

Having pondered what the Mistress of Sickness did to overcome pesky consumptive illnesses while living her best life, I have decided to embrace my fragility rather than reject it. It’s no sin to admit we are flawed and fragile; doing our best to overcome difficult circumstances sometimes means we must ride the wave rather than fight it, and see where the wave carries us.

~~~~~

Let the winds howl round about, and waves crash on the shore -

our time of Storm will someday cease, and we shall strive no more.

But recollection shall arise: what will the memory be

of Storm and Sail? Did Life prevail against the raging Sea?

WATCHER of the DAMNED PODCAST Episode 9 - THE RECKONING - is LIVE!

Fleeing from the Reunion Posse and the Mysterious Afterling, the Watcher has to beat them both back to the Reunion Prison Camp - or his Abuelita will die... Tune in for new cliffhangers each week!

https://www.watcherofthedamned.com/po...

Overly Dramatic Poetry Reading Time

Please accept this spoken word art masterpiece, complete with original music and glitter fabrics!

When Chainsaws Attack

I really shouldn’t go on Twitter.

There, the kinder gentler souls of the internet are doing #writerslifts and tweetering about #amquerying. Scattered among the #rejectionletter and #writerlife tweets one can find usual “I wrote 20,000 words today and I just sold my 1.5 Millionth Book” congratulatories; these tweets cut like a knife, especially for those of us who wrote five words, edited out 653, then set our manuscript on fire.

R. H. Snow’s Deep Thoughts from the Dubble-wide of D00m is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Oh, we say niceties and clap with happy bunny gifs, but be warned: behind the glass screen, a writer weeps in frustration as the “Authors with a Big A” enjoy the fruits of their “I Am A Published Author” statuses. Not me, of course. I’m fine…

really. I am.

But far more brutal than all these are the #amwriting tweets. There, embedded between the “more coffee” tweets and the “I love my book” blurbs we find the most egregious of all tweets -

the “Writerly Space” tweets.

“I am headed for the mountain cabin, loves, to write my next novel amidst the solitude of the High Sierra. As I look out across the majestic valley, I will not think of you, for I am a writer.”

“I bid you adieu as I close the door of my garden studio; nestled in my floral-cushioned wicker chair, I must listen to Pachabel’s Canon and eat chocolate biscotti while drinking lavender tea. Oh, and write poetry.”

“Here in this smokey urban bar, from the bottom of this whiskey bottle, I find the all-subsuming bitterness I need to write my next award-winning Children’s Book of my series, ‘Little BinkyBoo and her Sunshine Friends.” I hate you all.”

These all sound so amazingly writerly, so perfect…

I look around my room.

It’s not necessarily shame I feel; it’s more… weird Boho, but without the urban-ness?

First off, the Boudoir of Bodaciousness in my Dubble-Wide of D00m is no literary illusion. It’s a real Dubble-Wide, made from real bits of D00m. Witness me.

This is Writerly Inception.

Notice: my writing studio is a lap desk on my bed. It has all the amenties, like a giant screen with a sweet light-up keyboard and mouse so I can write books play games after dark. Which I am totally not doing. Right now. The Mini-Guitar is there so I can toughen up my fingers while watching Cat and Fail videos on YouTube; this makes me feel like I am accomplishing something while actually wasting time. Also notice: the Fire Radio. This blares loud tones at random intervals to remind me that other people are doing actual jobs and are not complaining about a bed that has Wi-Fi.

These people are also in here:

I know it’s blurry. I like it. It makes the ones in the back look haunted.

Note the anticipation of treats, and the air of disapproval at the basket of laundry. Clearly, I am not a good enough housekeeper for them. Peppermint is huge, and she helps me write by wharruffing as loudly as possible at inopportune moments. The others, Lil’ Debbie, Mocha and Bonnie, are there to complain to management about the absolute state of debauchery surrounding this basket of laundry, which may never be done, ever. This isn’t even all of them - two other pups, Prissy and Pepino, are lurking around the corner; they wander in and make noises about stuff, like raccoons and possums. This is a lovely accompaniment to the Brahma Rooster in the Front Yard, who crows at all hour of day or night, surround by his chorus of Goat Girls.

This ambience is clearly that of Dubble-Widery rather than Writery. So where does the D00m come in?

Well, as we all know, Writers listen to music to enhance their mood and make Writing FUN (TM). This means turning on something that can lift and lighten, or created romance…

or in my case, drown out everything else. Enter something relaxing and evocative:

Well, sure - why not?

Video game music is the perfect soundtrack for writing shot-guns-blasting-baddies goodness, which happens with regularity in my WATCHER of the DAMNED series. It also is loud enough to overwhelm the sound of dogs barking. Everything else being all equal, it just adds to the general sense of chaos. I enjoy it, and it inspires me - not to write, but to go download Steam again after uninstalling it for the ninth time so I would write instead of playing DOOM.

Come to think of it, this really is my happy Writerly Space. Perhaps I should tweet about it -

soon as I finish playing DOOm again, I will.

R. H. Snow’s Deep Thoughts from the Dubble-wide of D00m is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Through my Mother's Eyes

I finally worked up the courage to create my Illustrator Portfolio.

This is a monumental achievement, because my self-identification as an illustrator is tangent to my ability to see myself an illustrator. For some reason, I can see myself as an Author, or as a Musician, because I have some confidence in those assessments; I have feedback to let me know I’ve done something right. But Illustrator means Artist, and I have a high bar which to aspire…

R. H. Snow’s Deep Thoughts from the Dubble-wide of D00m is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

my Mother.

She was a Renaissance Woman flourishing in a blossoming America. A Sharecropper’s Daughter, she became a student of physics before she burned out and ran away to live a beatnik life on the road with my Father, travelling from Mexico to Alaska on the new Pan-American Highway.

Father was a Free Spirit, a brilliant, hotheaded Jobshopper with a penchant for inventing incredible contraptions and getting into fights; finding him irresistible, Mother chased after him while he chased his dreams. Hauling their trailer behind them, they wrote poetry and sang songs, living their Adventure. Loving the scenery, Mother began to paint, putting pigment upon tiny canvasses as they travelled the Al-Can Highway. The Adventures kept rolling, down to Malibu, through the Pacific Northwest, across the Great American Midwest - and the painting piled high, visions of a life lived in Freedom.

Then came The Children.

These Children came at a high personal price; a decade of infertility led to a desperate attempt at the only therapy available at the time - surgery, then more childlessness. Over a decade of longing and failed attempts at adoption gave way to acceptance of God’s will… then, over the age of 35, the Dam of Miracles broke and Mother gave birth to three of us in five years.

Contrary to conventional wisdom, my Parents did not settle down. They still travelled, hauling us with them all over the Lower Forty-Eight, hiking, driving and adventuring their way into a staggering 18 cross-country moves over the course of my childhood. In the eye of this constant relocation storm, Mother established two businesses, gained certifications, and became a million-dollar selling realtor while looking fabulous in silk scarves and tailored polyester pantsuits.

She was a modern woman.

Mother did, however, see the value in raising her own children. She was not above caring for the yowling rugrats she birthed, and decided that cookies and aprons would be appropriate, as long as her Easel and paints were nearby. No matter where we moved, a room was reserved for the Art of Oil Painting. And inevitably, one of us would be snagged to model for her. From the wrap-around porch where I was flinging myself into rosebushes, Mother beckoned to me -

covered in dirt and thorns, I answered the call.

Entering the Temple of Art was a privilege, and I knew to be reverent. The panoply of color and smell announced the birth of paintings: tubes of Titan Red and Titanium White lay scattered about stretched canvasses, palette smeared with Yellow Ochre and Pthalo Blue to create a slow-drying spectacle of light and shadow. The smell of Turpentine mixed with the incense of her Marlboros - she was always careful not to light herself on fire accidentally - creating a sanctuary of her soul, the Artist at peace with her life of Motherly chaos.

I sat as she created the slow-developing portrait of the decade long-quest for children, Creation of Creation…

Looking back on this, I realise she took Artistic License to the extreme. There are no scratches, no grass-stains, no snaggle-toothed childish grins; my woolly nature announces itself only through my hair, which she had attempted to smooth into place. As I sat, she explained the use of the colour wheel, the mixing of pigments, perspective and the patience of waiting to dry. She also explained the role of the Artist, to see things not merely as they were, but as they had been, could be, or never was…

this was her future vision of me. Older, more elegant, a young woman she had yet to meet - it would manifest, even if only briefly. Like all things human, that moment was fleeting, and even though the peach satin didn’t match her envisioned burgundy, the prom dress was almost the same.

In all things, the lessons she taught me are never far away. I don’t see myself the way she did; whether as an Author, a Musician or an Artist, I am blind sometimes to my own nature, the truth of who I am or what I could be; but through the eyes of my Mother, I see myself in a different light:

the eye of the Artist sees with the Heart.

R. H. Snow’s Deep Thoughts from the Dubble-wide of D00m is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Transmutation

Ashes to Life becomes Life into Dust;

Lead becomes Gold but the Gold turns to Rust -

Babes become Beauties, then Age - as we must...

How can we know whom to trust?

The Eye of the Body is blind to the Soul

'Til eyes are opened and hearts are made whole;

God of all Glory, His Truth will extol -

Our transmutation His goal.

R. H. Snow’s Deep Thoughts from the Dubble-wide of D00m is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Hot Times in Texas

Ah the expectations of Fun in the Sun, Bar-Be-Ques in the yard, the warm breeze gently wafting beneath a cotton dress as I drift through a pasture filled with wildflowers…

in Texas, that’s not summer - that was April 28th, from 2:15 - 2:45PM. The rest of the time it’s been Texas TerrorIce, Texas Tornadoes or Texas Toast. As we cuddle up next to a roaring AC, we have to ask ourselves - how did the old folks manage to stay alive in Texas?

R. H. Snow’s Deep Thoughts from the Dubble-wide of D00m is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

In my Sci-Fi Western Series, WATCHER of the DAMNED, I had to ponder this timely question because A) they have no electricity and B) it’s Texas, so I didn’t need my Main Characters dying of Heat Exhaustion before the end of the Series. Fortunately for me, I have the answer.

Turns, out, I know first hand. I have actually lived in Texas without air conditioning in the Summer, because I was a) a primitive camper and b) I was broke. But I also have real stories from real people about how people leaved in Ye Ancient Times. This knowledge is born the kind of wisdom that dipped Scotch Snuff and drank Sweet Tea, for I am old, born of old people who were also born of old people who were born of old people ad infinitum.

ANCIENT HISTORY VERACITY CLAIM:

My Birth: 1962

My Father’s Birth: 1923

My Grandfather’s Birth: 1881

My Great-GrandFather’s Birth: 1841

TO WIT: My Great GrandFather fought in the Civil War. I literally heard my Mother tell stories told to her by a CIVIL WAR VETERAN; I am a freak of nature and I love it. But this means I need to share my incredible knowledge with you before I shuffle off this mortal coil and become one with my ancestors and Sweet Baby Jesus, so let’s tackle this question:

HOW DID OUR ANCESTORS STAY COOL IN TORRID TEXAS?

Spoiler Alert: They did what people the world over do: MAKE DO.

HOT TAKE #1: Natural Air Conditioning

EXHIBIT 1: Dogtrot Houses

Dogtrot House, Image Courtesy of the Bullock Museum of Texas History

My Grandma lived in a Dogtrot house much like this one. I visited it as a child, and it was every bit as awesome as it sounds. The smell of old wood and dust set the stage of a concert of cicadas in the evening breeze - all from inside this marvellous house. The Dogtrot design was oriented towards the prevailing southeast summer breeze, to funnel air in and create natural air circulation. A woodstove in each side of the house kept it warm in the winter, and summer cooking was done in the breezeway. In memory, I am still there; no symphony ever matched the Song of Summer Beneath the Breezeway.

EXHIBIT 2: High Ceilings

Wichita Grass House, Image Courtesy of habitatio_nepi

Many Indigenous Tribes of Central Texas - Waco, Tawakoni, Caddo - built these wonderful grass huts with high, vented ceilings, creating a ‘chimney effect’ to draw air into the hut for natural ventilation. These houses were engineering marvels, keeping cool in the summer and staying warm in the winter - and despite their seemingly ephemeral construction, they were remarkably durable. Look to the Prairie, and see how her People survived and thrived; she has a story to tell.

HOT TAKE #2: Hats & Light, Long Cotton Clothes

Image Courtesy of Davick Services: Bailey County Farmer with Mule Team

This fine Farmer has the formula down - a high-crowned straw hat and light, long cotton clothes. Anyone who works outside for a living knows that this is the way, but for many who have never worked outside, a word of advice: the sun is NOT your friend. My Mother picked cotton as a Sharecropper’s child during the Great Depression, and I still have a cotton slat bonnet she wore, packed away with all my treasures. She wore long-sleeved, loose-fitting, light colored clothing, and would tie water-soaked bandanas around their necks to stay cool. Bare arms and a bare head equalled sunburn and heat stroke. And outdoor work leads us to our Third Hot Take:

HOT TAKE #3: Work Like A Mule

Image Courtesy of Library of Congress: Resting the Mules

This intelligent young Man knows when to lay off in the heat - and he’s following the lead of his wise Work Partner: his Mule. Mules are smart critters, and many farmers in Texas considered them the best draft animals, because mules would usually stop working when they got too hot. When the mules stopped pulling, people stopped plowing and took a water break. Scheduling was also important. Doing hardest outdoor work before noon and after six PM in summer, many old folks would switch to ‘shade tree’ work whenever feasible in the hottest part of the day. These were jobs that could be done beneath a tree, or inside a cabin: laundry, food prep, housecleaning, repairs, etc - they worked all day long - they just worked SMART. They worked like Mules. But what about AFTER the work day?

HOT TAKE #4: Outdoor Kitchens

Image Courtesy of Dummaniosa’s Flicker Page: German Farm Outdoor Kitchen

An outdoor kitchen was a necessity for Texas Farms. A roof was needed to keep off rain and sun; cooking was long, hot work, and a shaded space to cook made the work more pleasant - plus it allowed cooks to interact with the family and watch children while they were working and playing outside. Work was a family affair, and everybody pitched in to make meals and do labour required to stay alive. Working within eyeshot made work safer and more social. Who wants to be cooped up in a teeny dark house when the fireflies are playing in your kitchen?

HOT TAKE #5: Sleeping Porches

Image Courtesy of The Gamble House: “Sleeping Porches”

They sound fancy, but even humble cabins aspired to have a sleeping porch. Sleeping inside during the summer was like sleeping in a sauna: not feasible. Nobody likes to wake up roasted like a brisket, so when it was too hot, beds were moved to a cooler place - the porch. In Texas, Dogtrot homes already had a built-in breezeway to use, but any home could convert a porch into a bedroom. Before screens, they used wooden or bamboo lattice, just like people the world over have done for millenia; sleeping inside was simply too hot. But even then, mosquitoes might come around to buzz in your ears, so a nearby smokey fire would help to keep the bugs at bay. This fire was even better if it was a pit bar-be-que. WIN-WIN.

FAST FORWARD TO LIFE IN THE A/C AGE: Having grown up in a dirt-floor cabin, my Mother loved Air Conditioning, and would relentlessly freeze us all to death, just because she could. But even in the middle of summer, she would sometimes turn it all off and fling open the windows, just to smell the scent of the sun’s heat, a forgotten relic of time without summer chill. Mother said we should, because people all over the world live without air conditioning. Then she would sit down with a gigantic mason jar full of sweet tea and tell me that life without Air Conditioning is not just a relic of our past - it might the heat wave of our future.

Perhaps I should build that outdoor kitchen soon.

R. H. Snow’s Deep Thoughts from the Dubble-wide of D00m is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.