R.H. Snow's Blog, page 44

WATCHER of the DAMNED: TransMutation Texas AUDIBLE EPISODES are HERE!

WATCHER of the DAMNED: TransMutation Texas - THE PODCAST! NEW Audible Episodes ripped straight from the Best Novel Nominated Series - Chupacabra Fights! Shotguns! Mutant Cowboys! Cheeky Clonegirls! Original Music! FREE: Now with EXTRA Texas Twang, read by MOI for your pleasure!

New Episodes each week - so tune in and join the Revolution with WATCHER of the DAMNED!

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.

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

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.

RADICAL FREEDOM

Please enjoy this intersectional Woman-scribed Song about destroying Systemic Racism - at ANY cost. I am absolutely blown away by how subversive and radical it really is ...

Next time someone hates on America, tell them the 9th Illinois Infantry sends their regards.

OMGOSH Y'ALL #16 - TEXAS FUNK, FOLK & FILK: WATCHER of the DAMNED talks Texas HonkyTonks!

I think my microphone is out to get me… maybe when I grow up I’ll learn how to adjust audio settings too. Enjoy me being weird on a microguitar…

In Her Own Words: Margaret Sanger, Planned Parenthood and the KKK

As I prefer to let Margaret Sanger speak for herself, I will only comment that Roe V Wade’s Attorney Sarah Weddington was a friend of the Sanger Family:

https://alexandersanger.com/2021/12/30/sarah-weddington/

The Question must be asked: did Margaret Sanger influence Roe V Wade?

…..

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MARGARET SANGER

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/56610/56610-h/56610-h.htm

…EXCERPT…

"Always to me any aroused group was a good group, and therefore I accepted an invitation to talk to the women’s branch of the Ku Klux Klan at Silver Lake, New Jersey, one of the weirdest experiences I had in lecturing.

My letter of instruction told me what train to take, to walk from the station two blocks straight ahead, then two to the left. I would see a sedan parked in front of a restaurant. If I wished I could have ten minutes for a cup of coffee or bite to eat, because no supper would be served later.

I obeyed orders implicitly, walked the blocks, saw the car, found the restaurant, went in and ordered some cocoa, stayed my allotted ten 367minutes, then approached the car hesitatingly and spoke to the driver. I received no reply. She might have been totally deaf as far as I was concerned. Mustering up my courage, I climbed in and settled back. Without a turn of the head, a smile, or a word to let me know I was right, she stepped on the self-starter. For fifteen minutes we wound around the streets. It must have been towards six in the afternoon. We took this lonely lane and that through the woods, and an hour later pulled up in a vacant space near a body of water beside a large, unpainted, barnish building.

My driver got out, talked with several other women, then said to me severely, “Wait here. We will come for you.” She disappeared. More cars buzzed up the dusty road into the parking place. Occasionally men dropped wives who walked hurriedly and silently within. This went on mystically until night closed down and I was alone in the dark. A few gleams came through chinks in the window curtains. Even though it was May, I grew chillier and chillier.

After three hours I was summoned at last and entered a bright corridor filled with wraps. As someone came out of the hall I saw through the door dim figures parading with banners and illuminated crosses. I waited another twenty minutes. It was warmer and I did not mind so much. Eventually the lights were switched on, the audience seated itself, and I was escorted to the platform, was introduced, and began to speak.

Never before had I looked into a sea of faces like these. I was sure that if I uttered one word, such as abortion, outside the usual vocabulary of these women they would go off into hysteria. And so my address that night had to be in the most elementary terms, as though I were trying to make children understand.

In the end, through simple illustrations I believed I had accomplished my purpose. A dozen invitations to speak to similar groups were proffered."
…..

…END EXCERPT…

For more of Margaret Sanger in her own words, read:

PIVOT OF CIVILISATION:

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1689/1689-h/1689-h.htm

LETTER FROM MARGARET SANGER to C. F. GAMBLE

https://libex.smith.edu/omeka/items/show/495

…..

Systemic Racism is Evil.

The Headstones of Lost Prairie

http://www.cemeteries-of-tx.com/Etx/Limestone/cemetery/Lost%20Prairie.htm

When the Deaconess passed away, there was cake in the room.

No one dared to eat it, though - they were waiting for the Angels to come and carry the Deaconess through the pearly gates. This was no hard task for the Angels, as the Deaconess was light and little, the most unassuming and unintimidating of all Deaconesses. Her voice was high and lonesome in its Bluegrass Sweetness, and her curly head was not of the Lioness, but of a Lamb. Now that curly head lay upon a linen pillowcase, and the sweet voice stilled.

The Angels arrived while the Preacher held her hand; the faithful prayed the Psalms, waiting until her last breath was cool -

then between muffled sobs, her family ate the cake and planned her funeral.

Immediately everyone called everyone to let everyone know the Deaconess had been called Home. And immediately after the tears, the question came -

What about The Dinner?

The Dinner is sacrosanct, a ritual that must not be denied, or else the world will surely end and we will all deserve it for not feeding the hungry Family of the Blessed Dead. After much phone-calling it was declared that the Church basement would be too hot for Funeral Dinner, and food should be taken to the Family’s lovely air-conditioned home. The traditional box of Fried Chicken and Rolls were forsworn, seeing as how everyone knew it would be too hot to eat hot food.

The idea that it was too hot for Fried Chicken at a Funeral was almost heresy, but this idea was at last blessed by the Preacher, who would buy the cold platters as a gift for the Family.

Much ado was made about the way that the family would be fed prior to The Dinner. Neighbors called neighbors to determine where and when the potlucks would be unleashed, a loving wave of pasta salads and banana puddings descending upon the Family in torrents of homemade condolences. But there would be no cold green pistachio gelatin salad this time…

that was the signature dish of the Deaconess, her own gift of love now missing.

Plans were made to have the memorial service in the most expedient way possible, as the heat of the Texas Summer has been oppressive this year. It was decided that the richly-decorated air conditioned confines of the Funeral Home were preferable to the old fashioned airiness of her little historic Church. Although this hurt her Preacher’s heart, he understood, for no one wants to see any of Deaconess’ sisters pass out from heat during the Visitation or Memorial Service. But there was one challenge greater than all the rest -

Graveside.

Graveside is the sacred moment of internment. Surrounded by monuments of loved ones gone before, the Family must make their peace with the Beloved Mortal Shell’s descent into Earth, casting flowers and clods of soil upon the casket to bid farewell. To do this, they must not die of Heat Stroke.

This requires careful planning. A flurry of decisions were made to keep the Graveside service short and sweet, then take the Family home to cold-cut trays and Fruit platters for an after-Funeral Dinner.

With all these plans in place, all that remained was to give the Remains back to the Earth.

The Memorial Service went off without a hitch, with the usual recorded songs and well intoned Obituary. Stories were told, tears were shed, then the Deaconess’ body was carried out to the Funeral Convoy to be escorted to Lost Prairie Cemetery.

And there I waited.

Texas takes on a certain color beneath the sun in mid-June. The dark green of Oaks overspreads the yellowing pastures, still verdant but baking to a more toasted tone. Small clouds wisped in the hazy air, the midday sky still blue above but fading to the horizons. Dark shadows dappled the sunlit expanses of headstones, ancient monuments leaning this way and that amid scraped mounds, curbs and watermelon plants. The chaos of the layout, the lanes crowded with concrete benches and Crepe Myrtles, all give a Western Gothic vibe to the tranquil surrounding.

The pickup trucks came roaring up, first one, then a train of them, bearing their mourners - men in boots and cowboy hats, women in flowing finery, and children in tow. Chattering quietly among themselves, the gathering of the Church Ladies commenced, the hugging of women who are responsible for the torch which was passed to them by the Deaconess.

I now am one of them. The responsibility weighs heavily upon me. Once I was merely the Preacher’s wife, a newcomer, an observer of the Rituals of Life and Death; but the Deaconess had initiated me in the Ways of the Church.

“Here is where my baby is buried”, the Deaconess showed me, that first time I came to the Cemetery with her. It was not our own Church Cemetery, but her ancestral one. “I never even got to hold his little hand.”

A Woman, fifty years beyond the loss, mourned the Son she never held… she wanted me to know. But wasn’t just one life, it was a History of a Community. She took me around through the cemetery, pointing out the mounded graves, scraped by descendants to keep weeds from growing there…

all except the Watermelons, left to grow long ago after a graveside Watermelon picnic, because Watermelons are never weeds.

Now the mounded graves are becoming scarcer, as most are covered in mown grass. Their descendants too have passed on to lie beneath the sandy loam of Lost Prairie. But I remember: I am witness to the changing of the guard, the keeper of the eternal flame of the Church Ladies; it is up to me to remember.

Beneath the billowing green Funeral tent, Funeral Home workers in pressed polyester suites passed ice water bottles among overheated attendants to chill thirsty spirits. A pink casket covered in carnations is carried by burly, bearded men; it takes me a moment before I recognise that one of those full-grown men is my son. A slender young woman hisses at me to sit down. “You are going to pass out from the heat - sit down!” I try to ignore her, but my Daughter is insistent. Then I remember how I fussed at the Deaconess to not overexert herself in the heat that long ago day, and I sit. But only for a moment;

The Preacher doffs his straw hat, and dusts a demin’d leg to quietly pray; then, as requested, we rise to sing ‘Precious Memories’…

and once more the Deaconess’ hand is in mine, leading me through the headstones of Lost Prairie.

WATCHER of the DAMNED: Monster Manuals & Convention Panels!

Defending "Spock Must Die!"

DISCLAIMER: This is a GoodReads Review. I spent enough time writing it, I figured it belonged here. Also, I’m old.

Spock Must Die! (Star Trek Adventures, #1)
by James Blish

"I'm a fan..." they said. "This is pedestrian"... they whined.

Ah, modern readers, with your youtubes and eternal Star Trek series available at your fingertips, you know not of what you hold in your hands, the ancient artifact known as "Spock Must Die!" You see, there was a time when the youtubes and internets did not exist. I know I speak heresy, but hear me out -

there was also a time when Star Trek was not yet available to viewers. Although it was in syndication, for many it was out of reach, to be available only on the East and West Coast through the magic of Kaiser Broadcasting.

That's right, gentle readers: for those of us not blessed with a local Kaiser Station, Star Trek simply vanished with a cool transporter sound, leaving fans desperate for more. Those of you fattened on the endless offerings of your device's technological cornucopia do not know the absolute misery this wreaked on millions of adoring fans of the OST franchise. You do not know the storyline starvation that ensued, or the withdrawals that seized the science fiction world...

enter James Blish.

This paragon of a man, this rescuer of fandom, did what no other at the time was willing to do - he put a Star Trek book in the hands of readers. He did it in record time, during the middle of a health crisis with nods to canon and accurate portrayals of beloved Characters. Blish did all this, and with a unique story to boot.

I will not laugh at my unsophisticated childish self; I will not mock my early-franchise ideals. To do so is to invoke the sins of the stewards of the Star Wars franchise, who view everything though the retroactive lens of the now. Instead, I will tell you what happened the day my Father brought home the book, from a real book store:

I read it. I loved it. I read it again and was thrilled with the outcome and the intrigue. Spock, my first real nerd-girl crush, was loving portrayed and I wept for his pain. Capt. James T. Kirk, my next great crush, was portrayed as the true friend, as I had always dreamed he would be. Blish's work satisfied the longing within, to know that the characters still lived, that the memory would not die with the unfinished series.

I had no way to know that nationwide syndication would come; I had no inkling that an animated series, cable tv, sequels, or movies would be born... I only knew that the Book had come, and the Book was good. The complaints of others regarding "Spock Must Die!" are borne out of satiation on the Star Trek Franchise, spirits gorged on plenty...

I run my hands across the broken spine of a beloved book, decades past its prime, spurned by so many who know not what it means to hunger for a story. The critics turn back to their feast, not realising that "Spock Must Die!" was the first dish on their groaning table:

but I will not forget. In my time of famine, James Blish fed my needy Star Trek soul.

Revisiting the Throne Room

I love being old. In my repertoire of memory, I have a vast supply of moments so painful, so glorious, so overwhelming desperate, that it becomes easy to write any scene. But every story has a soundtrack; whenever I am writing these scenes, I turn to evocative music to stir the stored emotions.

That golden kiss that turned into a failed marriage? It’s still there, pristine in its passion, alive in Tchaikovsky’s ‘Concerto #1’. The devastation of the discovery of the affair is also there in Phantom Michael Crawford’s anguished howl at ‘All I Ask of You’ Reprise…

it’s all there, waiting to be mined for emotional treasure, to be forged into my own story. So it stands to reason as I write an ovation scene, I turn to the memory of a young Star Wars, and A New Hope. There, in the overwhelmingly naive triumph of Good over Evil, I find the emotion I wanted - that radiant moment, the Coronation of the Hero -

and I also find a bitterness at the demise of the Franchise.

I had been a super fan. I bought the fan novels and played the video games; I drew pictures of C3PO instead of studying and I learned to play the entire London Symphonic Star Wars theme on piano - by ear - at the tender age of 14. I even taught my children to create their own pool-noodle and duct tape lightsabres, because the great lessons must be taught -

the Force is with Us.

But like all good things, those who hate what is right came to wreck it. Recognising my devotion, the depredations of time and greed took advantage of my love, destroying my memories, changing the story after the fact, gaslighting me about whether or not Han shot first…

At last, in revolt at the Disney’s revisionist rewrites of canon, I had flung my lightsabre down in disgust, vowing never to return. I removed my R2D2 teapot down from its place of honor, and put in a dark corner, along with my portraits of another me, the ones taken before my broken heart. But good memories, like the bad, cannot remain buried… they will eventually be resurrected.

I have been writing a scene, darker in nature, but still triumphant; that moment where the party turns to each other in recognition of Heroes in their midst. I needed a moment of such crystalline clarity that it could transcend the darkness clouding their future. I flipped through my usual playlist, seeking the moment that would spark that surge of unrepentant joy -

my mind pulled The Throne Room from the shelf.

A bitter thought blanketed my heart; why listen to the people who lied to me? Why revisit a good memory only to be assailed by the bad ones? I started to swipe it closed -

I hit play instead. The fanfare trumpeted, the lights came up -

and my Father was there, jumping up from his theatre seat to roar in joy by my side. Pumping his fists, he turned to me, and his eyes met mine -

He was alive.

This was the resurrection of everything I had cherished about my young self: the exuberant embrace of Good over Evil, the idea that we could fight it, refuse to surrender ourselves and our hearts to the Dark Side, to live forever in the Light.

I wept, and I knew why. Those who come to destroy our good memories can only triumph if we surrender them to the darkness. My Father is still alive; my kiss is still there, the love is still real, the Force is still with us…

all of it. It’s all true.

Allowing the present to destroy the past is the goal of every villain. Only when the past is no longer remembered can tyrants convince you to embrace their future. I revisited the Throne Room expecting to find a ruin - and instead, I found my truth. They cannot take it from me. I refuse to surrender what was given to me freely, in love, even as those who think they own it come to take it away…

It’s all true.

INDEPENDENCE CANNOT COME WITHOUT MEMORIAL DAY

Firetrucks roll proudly, while fifes and drummers play;

Fireworks blast loudly while politicians bray...

Though the world seems safe now and death seems far away -

Independence cannot come without Memorial Day.

~~~~~

Honored Dead still slumber beneath the wreaths they lay;

Restless spirits rumble as Freedom drifts away...

Headstones sending signals the silent Dead relay -

Independence cannot come without Memorial Day.

~~~~~

Ivory Towers tumble to mounds of crumbling clay;

Shepherds roll in riches while Lambs are led astray...

Dead Men speaking clearly what Living Men won't say -

Independence cannot come without Memorial Day.

~~~~~

Brave, prepare for Battle! Sinners, kneel to pray!

Lest we're led like cattle to prisons far away...

Hear the thunder rattle as Angels' Trumpets play -

Independence cannot come without Memorial Day.

Like

Comment

Share

Defending Innocents from Murderers

Am I allowed to defend innocents from murderers?

There is no 'but' - there are no grey areas. If you say no, then you side with the murderer.

Am I allowed to defend innocents from murderers?

If you say 'Yes, but..' you are telling me there are qualifiers to defend the innocent from murderers - thereby saying that the murderer is allowed to murder if I don't follow your rules.

Am I allowed to defend innocents from murderers?

If I seek permission first before I defend innocents from murderers, then I have no moral compass other than what I am 'allowed', making me a useless coward...

There are no qualifiers; I need no permission -

I will defend innocents from murderers, even if it means my death.