Mind Fields – Casinos: The Indians’ Revenge

Posted: September 17, 2021 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Commentary, Mind Fields, Opinion | Tags: Arthur Rosch, Mind Fields, Social Commentary, Writing to be Read | 1 Comment

In spite of a genocide of unthinkable proportions, the Native Americans are still here. They continue to guard and revive their languages, their cultures and traditions. A hundred and fifty years ago, they were snatched from their way of life, their children were sent to government schools and ceased being Native Americans as we knew them. Their lands were stolen, their food destroyed, their self respect slashed, their independence lost, their values derided.

During the sixties, the hippie movement created an icon of the Native American, made a romance of the tribal and nomadic life. A resurrected spirit began to seep into our so-called civilization. We had killed them off, but they returned. Their ghosts had hovered above the land, waiting for a time when they would be called.

Now, we are calling them. There’s a pathetic romanticism in this revived nostalgia for an aboriginal lifestyle. It’s pathetic because underneath the sentimental reverence for everything Native American lies a desperate plea for help from a culture that has lost its moorings.

Some people, mixed and full blood Native Americans, remain aware of their culture. They are working in subtle ways to bring some redemption out of the horror of their genocide.

Indian ways are viewed with increasing respect and admiration, as the values of our own culture decline, disintegrate and leave us grasping for something that will help us re-design our lives so they make sense.

It is a painfully barbed irony that many tribes now make their income soaking white people in gambling casinos. This method of making a living may be a two edged sword. It is an industry built on a foundation of vice and the creation of addictions. But consider a quick capsule history: squeezed into reservations by expanding white settlers, Native Americans were put on starvation-level welfare. What lands they possessed were confiscated whenever minerals or anything of value was discovered. In 1934, The Indian Reorganization Act allowed tribes to ‘buy back’ lands that had been confiscated. The capital to purchase these lands they once freely used came in the form of royalties on production of said natural assets. In essence, it’s like a situation where someone steals your car, and then sells it back to you. After all, you needed a car, right? And this car was YOUR car, you liked it, you bought it once, you might as well buy it again instead of buying another car. We’ll just let you pay for it by forking over a fifteen percent gasoline tax, or a ‘transportation tax’, or something that will keep your debt alive and delivering interest to the government.

It could be that gambling casinos are the last but only viable choice of a way to get a return on Indian lands. They are tax exempt. All you need is a parking lot, a building, some slot machines, electronic poker and blackjack, a bar, a restaurant, and you are in tax free heaven.

Lately I’ve gotten suspicious of Native Americans. I think they’re fucking with white people’s heads. It would be typical of their humor to go all Trickster on us. Let’s say, hypothetically, that a white person approaches a well known shaman. White person is seeking knowledge, initiation. Shaman sternly instructs white person: go into the desert and kill a badger with a dinner knife. Eat its liver and bring the pelt back to shaman and await further instructions. White person accomplishes mission in spite of grievous injury. Shaman takes pelt, puts it with inventory of other pelts and brews up peyote tea mixed with Belladonna. Whoo whoooo! White Seeker hallucinates legions of coal-black skeletons dressed in scarlet Nazi uniforms. The shaman puts White Seeker through a year of increasingly bizarre hi-jinks. He bestows dignified Native name on White Seeker: White Seeker. The literal translation in the native tongue is Buffalo Farts.

You get the idea. I saw this in Carlos Castaneda’s work. Don Juan and Don Gennaro were cackling behind their hands. Let’s make Carlos believe that his car has vanished into thin air! Then let’s make him believe something else. Let’s make him believe that an owl is capable of stealing his soul and trading it to Mescalito for power. How long can we keep this Anglo dangling? Dangling Anglo? Hahahha! Danglo! Let’s pretend that’s his Yaqui name. He’ll go around telling his white friends at college that his name is Danglo. Hahahaha. Pass me some of that mescal, amigo.

I know that Native Americans have been hurt by their casino bonanza. It’s a crappy form of reparation. It generates a lot of cash and a lot of corruption. I am not qualified to understand the situation. It’s like being paid a cash amount for your soul. Thank you, Mephistopheles, thank you very much.

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Arthur Rosch is a novelist, musician, photographer and poet. His works are funny, memorable and often compelling. One reviewer said “He’s wicked and feisty, but when he gets you by the guts, he never lets go.” Listeners to his music have compared him to Frank Zappa, Tom Waits, Randy Newman or Mose Allison. These comparisons are flattering but deceptive. Rosch is a stylist, a complete original. His material ranges from sly wit to gripping political commentary.

Arthur was born in the heart of Illinois and grew up in the western suburbs of St. Louis. In his teens he discovered his creative potential while hoping to please a girl. Though she left the scene, Arthur’s creativity stayed behind. In his early twenties he moved to San Francisco and took part in the thriving arts scene. His first literary sale was to Playboy Magazine. The piece went on to receive Playboy’s “Best Story of the Year” award. Arthur also has writing credits in Exquisite Corpse, Shutterbug, eDigital, and Cat Fancy Magazine. He has written five novels, a memoir and a large collection of poetry. His autobiographical novel, Confessions Of An Honest Man won the Honorable Mention award from Writer’s Digest in 2016.

More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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September Blues

Posted: September 15, 2021 | Author: kayelynnebooth | Filed under: Poetry | Tags: Grief. Poetry, Kaye Lynne Booth, Michael Daniel Lee Booth, Poetry, Writing to be Read | 9 Comments

September is always a difficult time of year for me. My son, Michael, died in September, two weeks after his nineteenth birthday, so the entire month is filled with thoughts of him, making it not a very happy month for me. I think about the times we had, and the ones we didn’t get to have. I imagine the man he never had the chance to grow into. It has been twelve years since he’s been gone and I’d like to share a poem that I wrote to him back then, a poem that still holds true today. I still miss him so much.

Just One More Time

Just one more time to hug you close.

Just one more time to see your smile.

Just one more time to touch your face.

Just one more time to feel your style.

Just one more time to breathe the scent of your cologne,

Even though it always made me sneeze.

Just one more chance to beg you

To stay and never leave me, please.

Just one more time to hear your voice.

Just one more time to know you’re there.

Just one more time to share a song.

Just one more time to tousle your curly hair.

Just one more time to say, “I love you”

And look into your eyes.

Just one more chance to say how much you mean.

Just one chance to say good-bye.

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Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show and Images of the Western Frontier

Posted: September 13, 2021 | Author: kayelynnebooth | Filed under: Nonfiction, research, Western | Tags: Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show, Dime Novels, Kaye Lynne Booth, Wild West, Writing to be Read | Leave a comment

Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show captured the minds and imaginations of easterners and westerners alike. His show was “the most successful touring show of all times.” (Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Entertainment Holdings), rivaling P.T. Barnum’s Circus at the time (Johns). Many have said that, “Cody did not merely represent the west, but he became the west, in his own mind and in the minds of others.” (Johns) This seems to be true, as his legend lived on in early twentieth century literature. Cody’s exaggerated and theatric portrayals of scenes from the west became the west in the minds of Americans across the nation. They are the images and ideas that “shaped and reflect our history.” (Johns)

The Wild West Show alone could not account for the rapid rise of the mythological west that came to form in the minds of Americans, particularly easterners. The eastern public had “an insatiable appetite…for stories of the west” that was recognized by Cody and author Printiss Ingram who wrote a dime novel series of Buffalo Bill’s adventures in the wild west, and together, they developed a stage version of the already popular Buffalo Bill myth. When Custer was defeated at Little Big Horn, Cody ended his New York Stage performance with the declaration that he would take a scalp in Custer’s honor. Less than a month later, the rumors flew with the claim that Cody had taken the scalp of Yellow Hand to the Fifth Calvary and myth blossomed into legend. (Johns) His performances portrayed scenes of wagon trains crossing the plains, settlers defending their homesteads, buffalo hunts and Indian battles as events of everyday life in the west, creating a romantic image of adventure and excitement for the public. (Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show and Exhibition) In a west that was rapidly changing, many of Cody’s promotions depicted a west that was already dead for the most part, with most Native Americans having been confined to reservations, the Alamo pushing Mexicans back, and the buffalo were all but gone. (Johns)

Presenting himself as the best representative of the Wild West, Cody’s performances emphasized the belief of the Native Americans as savages already held by many, reinforcing stereotypes of the native tribes. To his credit, Cody did promote the Native American as, “The Former Foe–Present Friend, the American” (Johns) and the Sioux warriors that were members of his cast were given status with places in “his ‘Congress of Rough Riders,’ a contingent that represented the finest horsemen in the world.” (Johns), but his portrayals of the American Indian still emphasized the stereotype of the red savage. His show presented the American Cowboy as the real article, and although Vaqueros, (Mexican cowboys after which the American version was fashioned), were a part of the show, they were portrayed more as un-American cowboy wanna-bes. The image of the independent, savvy, confident American cowboy that Cody portrayed was and still remains an American icon. Pheobe Ann Moses’ portrayal of Annie Oakley likewise created an image of the western woman that was nearly as rugged and independent as the cowboy, although they had to be “fallen women” since expectations of the times would not allow for a respectable lady to live in such a manner.

The program that Cody passed out at his show was more than a program, but a source of information, further establishing Cody’s authority on the west. “The program was also a source of information, providing facts about Indian origins of state names, the latest trends in marksmanship, and historical profiles of great Civil War scouts and frontiersmen.” (Johns) In a west that was rapidly changing, many of Cody’s promotions depicted a west that was already dead for the most part, with most Native Americans having been confined to reservations, the Alamo pushing Mexicans back, and the buffalo were all but gone.

References

Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Entertainment Holdings Inc. 2004. 21 September 2009. http://www.buffalobill.com/BuffaloBill.02.html

Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show and Exhibition. 21 September 2009. http://www.bgsu.edu/departments/acs/1890s/buffalobill/bbwildwestshow.html

Johns, Joshua. Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. 11 November 1995. University of Virginia. 21 September 2009. http://xroads.virginia.edu/~HYPER/HNS/BuffaloBill/home.html

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The Many Faces of Poetry – Poems In The Afterlife

Posted: September 10, 2021 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry | Tags: Arthur Rosch, Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry, Writing to be Read | 2 Comments

Everything that happens to me is pure bonus because I took such risks with my life that I shouldn’t be here and be as well as I am. Poems are a way of giving back so much that has been bestowed upon me.

There is a flea that alights on me;

former citizen of dog land

it got lost and is attracted

to my hairy arms.

My first instinct is to crush it

but some fleas are crush resistant and

it is futile to try, so just brush

don’t crush and allow the flea

its tiny attempts at life. Some creatures

are matters of indifference to me

unless they irritate or distract

and that is the flea

whose brotherhood is apparently immortal.

The host, too, is immortal so

there is no way to be rid

of fleas.

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More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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Want to be sure not to miss any of Arthur’s “The Many Faces of Poetry” segments? Subscribe to Writing to be Read for e-mail notifications whenever new content is posted or follow WtbR on WordPress. If you find it interesting or just entertaining, please share.

Growing Bookworms – Is your child overly pressured?

Posted: September 8, 2021 | Author: robbiesinspiration | Filed under: Growing Bookworms, Parenting | Tags: Growing Bookworms, Parenting, Robbie Cheadle, Social Pressure, Writing to be Read | 47 Comments

If children feel under pressure not to fail, it's because of signals they have picked up from adults' | Tes News — Picture credit: https://www.tes.com/news/if-children-feel-under-pressure-not-fail-its-because-signals-they-have-picked-adults

In the Southern hemisphere, the children are heading into the final stretch of the school year and most of them will have examinations looming at the end of a busy term filled with classes, homework, assignments, concerts, music, and sport.

In the Northern hemisphere, the children are all facing a new school year with new teacher and class structures. Some will be starting at a new school and will need to make a new set of friends.

For all children, wherever they live, life is stressful. Many children are pressured by parents to perform well at school and achieve. Some are also pressured to continuously practice and excel at sport, music and other extra curricular activities. Many children are driven by their own desire to succeed and do well. Scholarships, gaining acceptance into good universities, and getting a good job at the end of it all, is a common aim.

With our world so much faster and many jobs under threat of becoming redundant due to new technology and robotics, as well as a far bigger world population resulting in more competition for fewer jobs, our children are under far more pressure to achieve then we were. Most modern children are also far more aware of trends in the global job market than we were. This all leads to a lot of anxiety, stress, and pressure for youngsters.

While some pressure on kids to perform is a good thing, many children are under to much pressure and don’t have time to “be kids” anymore. To much pressure can impact kids negatively in many areas of their lives. Some of these areas are as follows:

Higher rates of mental illness – stress, anxiety, and pressure wear children down and lead to mental health problems like depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, and other eating disorders;
Higher risks of injuries – children who are pressured to perform on the sports field may ‘push through’ pain and other warnings signs of injury, possibly causing long-term damage to their bodies;
Increased risk of cheating – In circumstances where achievement of high marks becomes all consuming and is expected by parents, the desire to achieve at all costs can lead to unethical behaviour like cheating on tests and examinations;
Poor sportsmanship – kids who are pressured to always perform well don’t appreciate the benefits of learning to lose with good grace and understand that no-one can shine all the time. Everyone has bad days and difficulties with some or other subject or area of a subject; and
Sleep deprivation – Kids who are under constant pressure to perform are include to stay up late cramming for tests and suffer from lack of sleep. This can lead to poor health and bad sleeping habits.

From a parent or guardian perspective, these are five signs you are putting to much pressure on your child:

Criticizing your child for things s/he got wrong and not highlighting the things done well;
Being overly involved in your child’s studying, practice schedules, and choices of sports and other extramural activities;
Forcing your child to study and/or practice thereby not allowing him/her to learn consequences of lack of discipline and not studying or practicing;
Telling your child that an exam or sports game is a once in a lifetime opportunity;
Comparing your child unfavourably to other children or a sibling;
Losing your temper with your child or becoming obviously frustrated by lack of understanding or poor performance by your child.

Do you think children are very pressured in our modern world? Let me know in the comments.

About Robbie Cheadle

Robbie Cheadle is a South African children’s author and poet with 9 children’s books and 2 poetry books.

The 7 Sir Chocolate children’s picture books, co-authored by Robbie and Michael Cheadle, are written in sweet, short rhymes which are easy for young children to follow and are illustrated with pictures of delicious cakes and cake decorations. Each book also includes simple recipes or biscuit art directions which children can make under adult supervision.

Robbie has also published 2 books for older children which incorporate recipes that are relevant to the storylines.

Robbie has 2 adult novels in the paranormal historical and supernatural fantasy genres published under the name Roberta Eaton Cheadle. She also has short stories in the horror and paranormal genre and poems included in several anthologies.

Robbie writes a monthly series for https://writingtoberead.com called Growing Bookworms. This series discusses different topics relating to the benefits of reading to children.

Robbie has a blog, https://robbiesinspiration.wordpress.com/ where she shares book reviews, recipes, author interviews, and poetry.

Find Robbie Cheadle

Blog: https://www.robbiecheadle.co.za/

Blog: robbiesinspiration.wordpress.com

Twitter: BakeandWrite

Instagram: Robbie Cheadle – Instagram

Facebook: Sir Chocolate Books

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Want to be sure not to miss any of Robbie’s “Growing Bookworms” segments? Subscribe to Writing to be Read for e-mail notifications whenever new content is posted or follow WtbR on WordPress.

Mind Fields – Doomed Love At Starbucks: Breaking Up With The Internet

Posted: September 3, 2021 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Humor, Mind Fields, Romantic Comedy | Tags: Arthur Rosch, Humor, Love Story, Mind Fields, Social Commentary, Writing to be Read | 1 Comment

Internet and I are at a Starbucks and it’s one of those weekdays at two o’clock when the place is quiet. People chat softly at a couple of tables. One young man, about seventeen or eighteen, types quietly on his laptop. Internet is in my Toshiba Satellite, and I pull her closer so we can converse through the camera and speakers.

“We need to talk,” I say. Those dreadful words, mocked Internet. ‘We need to talk‘. But it’s true. Things have been changing between us.”

Her voice is tinny, coming from those little speakers. It doesn’t matter.

She (Internet) puts a face on the screen. It is one of those video game Lara Croft type faces, very pretty but very unreal. I know she’s teasing me, but it reveals her anxiety.

“Cut it out,” I growl. “Use your real face… the one we agreed on.”

Internet changes to a convincing human visage. She has red-brown hair and freckles and looks like a student at Cambridge or Oxford. I’ve always been a sucker for smart English girls. Internet is still fooling around. She’s wearing round Harry Potter glasses. She’s trying to be funny, but the glasses look good on her and she doesn’t know it.

We both start speaking at precisely the same moment.

“Well…I, uh…”

“You go first,” Internet says, in her upper crust English accent.

“We’ve been together a long time,” I reply. “Ever since my first Mac Notebook.”

Internet appears to shudder and for a moment there is a screen with little green battleships scooting back and forth. Then she regains her “face”.

“It’s me,” she says. “Not you. I’m the one who’s changed.”

“We’ve both changed, and it’s good, it’s great…,” I try, “but something has gone away, something has been lost.”

“What? What? There’s nothing lost. My god! Look what I can do now, look at the size of the files you can upload into me. And…., well… I can download into you…” Her shoulders wiggle with a sensual shimmy. “I love it!”

“That part of our relationship has been better than ever,” I say. “Our… uh… connection speed has been fabulous. It’s uh… uh…”

“What? It’s what?” She’s getting impatient.

“This is hard to say,” I waffle.

“Just come out with it!”

“Okay, okay. I think you’ve become all about money.”

“Oh bullshit!” Internet’s face turns a shade more red. Her complexion is already rosy, but I know I’ve hit a nerve. “I make money, you make money, everybody makes money on the internet. What are you complaining about! Come on, tell me the truth.”

“All right, all right. It’s kind of hard to explain…. but I’m always confused now. I don’t know what the heck you’re doing and it makes me feel… well… suspicious.”

“I have to change with the times,” Internet ripostes. “You know that, everyone knows that.”

“It’s true, but I feel like you’ve moved into my apartment and now the place is full of those sticky cobwebs that you walk through and then you keep brushing your head to get the stuff off but it never comes off. I don’t know what’s going on any more.”

My hand trembles as I drink a swig of lukewarm cappuccino. It’s all closing in on me. I feel confused and embarrassed. There is a silence. Internet looks guilty.

I don’t know why I blurted out the next words. “It’s Amazon, isn’t it?”

Internet looks even more guilty. “What do you mean, ‘It’s Amazon’? She says with an edge of defensive wrath.

My mind is beginning to clear. The cobwebby feeling starts to fall away from me. “You’ve sold out to the ‘zon. Everything is owned and run by the ‘zon. There aren’t websites any more. There are web colonies that are being run by web empires. Everything I post shows up on a hundred other websites. I can’t scratch my nuts without a link appearing on Facebook, Rotten Tomatoes or Twitter: Art Rosch just scratched his nuts. Do you want to be his Friend?”

Internet’s face dissolves into chaos, then puts itself back together. Maybe the connection went down. Maybe Internet is playing for time. There is a shadowy figure of Winston Churchill on Internet’s forehead. Down by her chin is the monster from “Alien” but it’s shrinking, quickly disappearing.

“Okay, I’ll admit to some things,” she admits. “I’ve been bought up by a handful of corporations. Tell you the truth, I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t have a clue. I’m getting new software thrown at me so fast, I can’t handle it.” A tear slides down her cheek. “I’m crashing all the time!”

I barely hear her. I’m reflecting on the experiences of the last few weeks.

“Tell me about it,” I say at last. “It seems like every day I’m asked to join another social network. What the hell is Pinterp? Or Floosbock? Like an idiot, I join and the software is a complete mystery. All I want to do is write my books and promote them. But everyone’s got a book! My inbox is ninety percent book promos. What do I have to write to get people’s attention? Seems like it’s all Harlequin Romance Vampire Private Detectives With Occult Powers. The covers all have dudes with open shirts and six pack abs. Good God! There are fifty million writers trying to sell their first novel. If you can’t get an agent, that’s okay, E-Publish your book and let Amazon sell it!”

“Calm down,” Internet soothes. “Things will work out. We’ll get through this glitch. I’ll help you promote your books.”

Her eyes are cast down and then she looks up at me with her head still lowered. It’s a very cute look, very seductive.

“You got anything to upload? A nice, big, fat file? Got a new manuscript? I’d like that.”

It has its effect on me, I’ll admit. I am tempted.

“I’ve got a new draft of a novel,” I said, with a straight face. It’s called FANGS OF AN EROTIC VAMPIRE WEREWOLF: A LOVE STORY.

Internet gives me a salacious grin. “Ooh,” she says, “that sounds juicy. What fun!”

I keep quiet. At last I see Internet’s expression change.

“Dammit,” she says, “I almost fell for that! Come on, what do you really have?”

“I have the second draft of my sci fi/ fantasy novel, THE GODS OF THE GIFT.”

“That’s more like it. That’s ‘you’. Has it changed a lot since the first draft?”

“Completely different book,” I say. “I’m really proud of it.”

Internet sticks out her tongue. “Come on, mister, what are you waiting for?”

I open a second screen in the upper corner of my monitor. I find my page for THE GODS OF THE GIFT, hit the EDIT button and delete the earlier draft.

“Here I come, baby,” I say. “I hope you’re ready for this.”

“From you, anything,” Internet replies. “You’re a fine writer. You’re an original.”

I mouse over to the UPLOAD button and click. My new draft is a blue bar that crosses a rectangular box. It takes about ten seconds. Internet’s face is rapt. Her mouth falls half open and her eyes glisten. The blue bar reaches the end of the box and the new draft appears on the screen.

“OH!” Internet sighs. “OH! OH! You’re right. This is a much better book. I know it’s awful to be a writer. It’s even more awful to be really great and still get ignored. I know it breaks your heart.”

I don’t say anything. I think about all the work, all the years I’ve spent working on the craft of writing. “Yes,” I admit. “It breaks my heart.”

Internet is recovering her composure. She has read the new draft and I know she is proud of me.

“Don’t ever give up writing,” she says. “Never. You MUST keep writing. This is amazing stuff. There’s nothing else like it.”

I open the page on my book blog and fill my monitor screen with the cover. I look at my design. I look at the starry cosmos and the elongated objects that resemble fiery colliding worlds. It is a work in progress but it isn’t kitsch and it’s faithful to the spirit of the book. It’s a really cool book cover.

“Don’t worry, babe. I can’t quit writing. I’m not capable of quitting writing, no matter how much it breaks my heart. To paraphrase an old motto,” I say, “You’ll have to pry my keyboard from my cold dead fingers.“

“That’s my man,” Internet replies. “I know I’ll go on changing, but great art is timeless. I’ll be loyal to you, I promise.”

I can’t quite make myself trust the promise. It makes me sad. But it leaves room for hope.

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More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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Words To Live By – Boredom, Star Wars, and the Unavoidable Lull

Posted: September 1, 2021 | Author: Jeff Bowles | Filed under: Commentary, Opinion, Words to Live By, Writing, Writing Life | Tags: Jeff Bowles, Words to Live By, Writing, Writing Life, Writing to be Read | 1 Comment

The first Wednesday of the month, writer Jeff Bowles muses on life, creativity, and our collective destinies as makers of cool stuff. You’re a writer, but have you ever thought about how or why? Here are some words to live by.

Boredom, Star Wars, and the Unavoidable Lull

So I’ve been away from my writing duties here at WtbR for a few months. Heck, I’ve been away from most of my creative obligations, not just blogging, which might be the reason I’ve been so bored sitting at home, knocking my tin cup against prison bars of digital entertainment, paperback novels, and maybe a household chore or two. Read that book you’ve read a half dozen times before? Watch the same old movie series you’ve been watching since you were a kid? Do I even have to ask?

Okay, what are we up to today? Star Wars or Star Trek? Star Wars or Star Trek? Maybe Indiana Jones? Hmm…

The reality is that some lucky beings on planet Earth are built like machines, incredibly industrious, real honest to god workhorses. Boy do I envy the workhorses among us. I’m just not one of them. I can admit that to myself now.

Unfortunately, and it took me far too many years to discover this about myself, I’m more of a work-in-exhausting-spurts-and-then-crash kind of guy. I’ve always been like this, even when I was in school. Sooner or later, mental and emotional exhaustion would get the better of me, and it’d be hell just to turn in assignments on time, keep a steady workflow going.

I’ve previously written about my experiences with schizoaffective disorder, at last diagnosed five years ago, so I won’t bore you with the details again. Suffice it to say, there are reasons—real and concrete medical and psychological reasons—that I can’t compete with so many avid worker bees out there. My mind and personality just don’t keep up; the flesh is willing, but the spirit is weak.

My family lost someone dear to us back in March, my wife’s mom, who was a wonderful person and a key figure in our lives. At that time I’d been running pretty hot as far as creative output went, having kept up with a reasonable workload, more or less, for a year or so on end. But her passing stopped me in my tracks, and I’ve sort of been floundering all summer long.

Didn’t write anything new. Didn’t even edit anything old, and I’ve got a whole unpublished novel sitting on my computer’s hard drive, an odd and hopefully entertaining piece of work I finished up at the tail end of last winter, the COVID winter, the one when we were all locked indoors anyway.

All this incompletion frazzles me. Our society tells us we’re not complete if we’re not working, and at that notion I’ve always thumbed my nose. Not because I’m a rebel or even a lazy slug (I mean, arguments could be made), but because for me, constant work has never been desirable or even possible. It hurts me that I need so much downtime. I’d like to be as dependable as a racehorse, constant as the northern star (God bless Will Shakespeare, had a phrase for everything). It’s just not how I’m built, I’m afraid. I need recuperation time, rest and relaxation that lasts however long it needs to last. There’s no way around it, at least not any I’ve found.

So does that make me an ineffective person? Worse yet, does it make me a failure in the professional sense? I feel like some people might say yes, but honestly, I’ve tried to take the bull by the horns, and well, the bull almost always has its way with me.

Schizoaffective Disorder is no joke, man. Very often I can’t trust my own conscious experience, and that’s lame, because consciousness is all human beings have. It’s the only thing given to us by default, our birthright, our entire universe. Never mind school assignments or projects that never get off the ground. What about the amazing feeling you get when you’ve completed something grand? I love that feeling. Don’t take that feeling away! I’m not done with it yet!

I’m glad to be back at Writing to be Read, but the truth is I don’t feel 100% yet. Yes, I’ve been playing video games and watching old movies and generally feeling bored out of my mind. But that’s what recuperation looks like for me. Read ‘em and weep. Or don’t.

I like to write about my everyday experience. It helps me parse through things that need careful consideration. You can’t fight your own mind. I mean, you can try, but it’s sure to cause literal raging headaches. I’m interested in learning about other long-term work habits people employ out there. Leave a note in the comments section below if you’re so inclined. How do you get your work done? Is it a struggle in the long term, or is it the easiest thing in the world for you?

Look for another Words To Live By next month. Count on it. Just don’t expect me to show up for dinner. I’ve got some more recuperation to get through. Star Wars or Star Trek again? Star Wars or Star Trek? Maybe Battlestar Galactica? Hmm…

Boredom never looked so … unavoidable. Until next time, folks.

Jeff Bowles is a science fiction and horror writer from the mountains of Colorado. The best of his outrageous and imaginative work can be found in God’s Body: Book One – The Fall, Godling and Other Paint Stories, Fear and Loathing in Las Cruces, and Brave New Multiverse. He has published work in magazines and anthologies like PodCastle, Tales from the Canyons of the Damned, the Threepenny Review, and Dark Moon Digest. Jeff earned his Master of Fine Arts degree in creative writing at Western State Colorado University. He currently lives in the high-altitude Pikes Peak region, where he dreams strange dreams and spends far too much time under the stars. Jeff’s new novel, Love/Madness/Demon, is available on Amazon now!

Check out Jeff Bowles Central on YouTube – Movies – Video Games – Music – So Much More!

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The Many Faces of Poetry – Rust/Untitled/Image

Posted: August 27, 2021 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry | Tags: Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry, Writing to be Read | 2 Comments

Sometimes I think I’m finished, that the last word has been written, the last kiss has been kissed. Then I tell myself

“Don’t be ridiculous!”. I’m here until I’m not here. Then I’ll be somewhere else, I’m sure of it.

These are recent poems, so recent they’re not even written, or half written.

Rust

How can the world be killed?

Melt the ice caps;

Beauties that we’ve known and loved

will die.

Polar bears will swim to exhaustion,

their cubs will starve.

A beautiful creature is dying,

but is the world dead?

Poach ivory from elephants until

there are no more elephants.

A great and profound beauty is dying.

I feel its death throes in my body, but still

the world can’t die.

There is no end to the world. Perhaps

when a small piece of our planet is murdered,

it diminishes those of us who live in this time,

for we are accomplice to the crime.

I don’t see myself as a world killer.

I see myself as a world maker.

But I can’t stop the tides that are rising,

the beaches that are drowning,

the storms that are raging.

We killed our world for comfort. I did.

You did. I bought into the con

until I saw the contempt in the con.

When I saw the con, I stomped on it like a poisoned artifact.

Earth killer! Murderer! Earth hater!

Is the world dead? It can’t be.

The desolate tide flats where bones show in the mud,

where mangled soldiers lie, where steel and gunpowder

show their leavings. That’s what I see, but that isn’t all

there is to see. Earth still lives.

Untitled

Aug 18 2021

There’s a part of my heart that I’ve never given

because it didn’t exist

until now.

It lives because of you, it was called forth

from my soul’s interior,

a place that yearns to be rid

of the burden of unloved Love.

It is the love that is shaped like you

a burnt silhouette

outlined by my vision

of your love for me.

I want my love for you

to be full like the orange moon

behind smoky clouds

to be full like a dark sky of stars

to be full like only a starving spirit

can ever know to be full.

Image

August 19 2021

Image: woman weeps over body of loved one.

On her knees, she rocks back and forth, hands clasped

The film is silent, black and white

but I can hear

grief, agony of heart and flesh.

Image: child running down a road in terror

fleeing the bombs, the thunder and flames running.

Image: men holding onto the fence

of their prison, drained of life and hope.

Image: mass graves filling as soldiers

toss bodies, casual

as farmers disposing of chaff.

Image: as camps are liberated

prisoners barely able to walk

to their freedom.

Image: filmed from bombers, napalm cannisters

topple end over end

incinerating jungle canopy and all beneath.

Image: B17 over Germany loses its wing

tumbling. No parachutes.

Image: There is nothing

I’ve seen the images

thousands of times

I rock in my chair before the screen

Image image image image

My eyes have become two people

each one has a mind

Their minds are pasted in surrounding spheres

of image.

I choose to sit here

and partake of the images

I choose, I’m just a modern person

I live my life on the ordinary street

safe for now from everything

but image.

before everyone knew

Image would wrap the world

Engulf and change our history,

turn it from experience into Image,

leaving us to feel

just a bit hollow

even though we are filled beyond satiation

with Image..

Dark Origins – Peter Pan, Lost Boys who are murdered and mermaids who are Sirens.

Posted: August 25, 2021 | Author: robertawrites235681907 | Filed under: Classics, Dark Fantasy, Dark Origins, Pirate Fantasy, Stories, Writing | Tags: Dark Origins, Folklore, Peter Pan, Roberta Eaton Cheadle, Writing to be Read | 42 Comments

Most of us know the Disney version of Peter Pan featuring Captain Hook, Mr Smee, Wendy, John, Michael, and the Lost Boys. Oh, and Tinkerbell, of course.

I am not sure how many people have read the original play called Peter Pan or the boy who wouldn’t grow up, written by J.M. Barrie in 1904, but it is a far cry from the innocent tale presented by Walt Disney.

We know from the Disney film that Peter Pan doesn’t want to grow up, but no mention is made of the extreme lengths Peter Pan is prepared to go to fight it.

Consider this extract: “The boys on the island vary, of course, in numbers, according as they get killed and so on; and when they seem to be growing up, which is against the rules, Peter thins them out; but at this time there were six of them, counting the twins as two.“

To put it bluntly, Peter Pan kills the lost boys to keep them from aging. While the film presents the view that Peter Pan is seeking eternal youth, he is, in fact, obsessed with death. This characteristic is believed to come from J.M. Barrie’s own childhood experience of losing his brother, David.

According to an article in The Herald, six-year old Jamie Barrie was hugely impacted by the death of his older brother, David, at the age of fourteen. David was said to have died the day before his birthday when he was accidently knocked over by a friend while skating, and fractured his skull on the ice. The article speculates that the ‘friend’ was in fact, young Jamie and that he was rejected by his mother as a result of the accident. You can read more about it here: https://www.heraldscotland.com/default_content/12469608.tragedy-behind-neverland-jm-barrie-cause-brothers-death/

And then there are the mermaids…

In the original Peter Pan story, the mermaids who inhabit Neverland all live in the lagoon. They enjoy the company of Peter Pan but are malevolent to everyone else. The are extraordinarily beautiful and have amazing singing voices, but they are vain and unfriendly.

The mermaids spend their days playing in the rock pools and ocean around Marooners’ Rock and they retire to their coral cave homes beneath the waves at night and during high tide.

The mermaids change when the moon is out and transform into darker creatures. They utter and wail strange calls in the moonlight. Captain Hook is terrified of the mermaids, calling them the ‘loreleis’ and saying that the lagoon is the most treacherous place in Neverland. A lorelei is a siren of Germanic legend whose singing lures Rhine River boatmen to destruction on a reef.

If you are interested in the true story behind Peter Pan and the life of J.M. Barrie, you can read more here: https://www.refinery29.com/en-us/2014/12/78880/peter-pan-jm-barrie-true-story

About Roberta Eaton Cheadle

Roberta Eaton Cheadle is a South African writer and poet specialising in historical, paranormal, and horror novels and short stories. She is an avid reader in these genres and her writing has been influenced by famous authors including Bram Stoker, Edgar Allan Poe, Amor Towles, Stephen Crane, Enrich Maria Remarque, George Orwell, Stephen King, and Colleen McCullough.

Roberta has short stories and poems in several anthologies and has 2 published novels, Through the Nethergate, a historical supernatural fantasy, and A Ghost and His Gold, a historical paranormal novel set in South Africa.

Roberta has 9 children’s books published under the name Robbie Cheadle.

Roberta was educated at the University of South Africa where she achieved a Bachelor of Accounting Science in 1996 and a Honours Bachelor of Accounting Science in 1997. She was admitted as a member of The South African Institute of Chartered Accountants in 2000.

Roberta has worked in corporate finance from 2001 until the present date and has written 7 publications relating to investing in Africa. She has won several awards over her 20-year career in the category of Transactional Support Services.

Find Roberta Eaton Cheadle

Blog: https://wordpress.com/view/robertawrites235681907.wordpress.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/RobertaEaton17

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/robertawrites

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Roberta-Eaton-Cheadle/e/B08RSNJQZ5

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Welcome to the WordCrafter “Behind Closed Doors” Book Blog Tour

Posted: August 23, 2021 | Author: kayelynnebooth | Filed under: book marketing, Book Promotion, Books, Guest Post, Poetry, WordCrafter Book Blog Tours, WordCrafter Press | Tags: Behind Closed Doors, Poetry Collection, Robbie Cheadle, WordCrafter Book Blog Tours, Writing to be Read | 51 Comments

To kick off the WordCrafter Behind Closed Doors Book Blog Tour today, we have a guest post by author and poet, Robbie Cheadle. In addition to being an author and poet, Robbie is a wife and mother of two boys, which shine through in her poetry. I always find Robbie’s poetry fun and heartwarming, and her fondant masterpieces are delightful. Today’s post discusses the inspiration by one of the poems in her newly released collection of unusual poems, Behind Closed Doors. I hope you will follow the tour this week, with a different guest post from Robbie at each blog stop, it should prove to be quite interesting. Join us to learn more about this fascinating lady and her poetry.

Behind Closed Doors, a collection of unusual poems blog tour – Day 1

On the 9^th of February 2021, I had been married for 20 years. So much has happened since that Friday two decades ago. We’ve lost loved ones, moved to a new house, enlarged our family with two lovely boys, progressed in our careers, and are now living through a pandemic.

Through all these years, some periods of which were joyous and some difficult and strained, my husband and I have remained the same; two contrasting personalities that complement each other.

Terence is the conservative one. He reflects and considers before he takes any action. He rarely gets angry or emotional and is peaceful and calming to be around.

I am the colourful one, always busy with four or five projects on the go. I have great passions and become deeply obsessed with things. My obsessions have changed over the years from instructing spinning and weight training in the gym, to baking, teaching Sunday School, fondant art, blogging, and writing. The subject of my enthusiasm may change, but my single-minded devotion and addiction has not.

In the beginning, Terence had one emotional, arty, and obsessive person to deal with and now, two sons later, he has three of us. Gregory and Michael are both more like me in personality and behaviour.

I wrote Contrasting Colours, one of my few metaphorical poems, as a celebration of our difference.

Contrasting colours (a metaphorical poem)

My husband is….	I am….

a calm expanse of water; glass smooth and clear,	a whirlpool of relentless, swirling motion,

a gentle zephyr, mildly puffing through life,	a tornado, tearing across fields and dales,

a leader with a firm attitude and commanding tone,	a soldier, determinedly marching through life,

a tawny owl, silent, watchful and wise,	a red breasted robin; bright eyed, perky and daring,

a spacious cavern, silent, restful and still,	a babbling stream; vibrant, noisy and turbulent,

a grandfather clock, steadily marking the seconds, minutes, and hours,	a cuckoo clock that loudly announces the hour,

a dictionary, providing an exact and definitive meaning,	a mysterious poem with different shades of meaning,

a mighty redwood, solid, sturdy and dependable,	a daylily flowering in a myriad of deep and bright colours,

a mural painted in calming blues and greens,	a collage of bright colours; yellows, oranges and pinks.

classic piano; gently soothing, relaxing, and soft,	raucous Broadway tunes; loud, lusty, and energised.

Do you think relationships work better if the couple are similar or different? Tell me in the comments.

Book blurb

***Behind Closed Doors, a collection of unusual poems***

What goes on behind closed doors: in the boardroom, after death, in the home, during lockdown, and in nature? This collection of poems, ranging from rhyming verse to twisted nursery rhymes, captures the emotions and thoughts people hide behind the masks they present to the world.

What thoughts are hidden

Behind her immobile face

Quite expressionless

Eyes cold and indifferent

Scrutinising me – hawk like

This book includes some of Robbie Cheadle’s spectacular fondant art and cakes.

Robbie Cheadle author bio

Robbie Cheadle is a South African children’s author and poet with 9 children’s books and 1 poetry book.

Robbie has also published 2 books for older children which incorporate recipes that are relevant to the storylines.

Robbie writes a monthly series for https://writingtoberead.com called Growing Bookworms. This series discusses different topics relating to the benefits of reading to children.

Robbie has a blog, https://robbiesinspiration.wordpress.com/ where she shares book reviews, recipes, author interviews, and poetry.