R.H. Snow's Blog, page 45

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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.

BASEDCON to FENCON: A Video Journal - JOHNNY CASH WAS HERE

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.