The Book of Personal Reality:
an attribute of 
     TANGLED REALITIES

                                                              Curator's Notes
    Assembled here for the first time, are excerpts culled from the voluminous journals of the world renown traveler, explorer, artist, designer, poet, philosopher, author, political commentator, theologue, cineaste, photographer, individualist, cultural anthropologist, critic, and devoted pilgrim to the mysterious TEMPLE OF THE HIDDEN DOMAIN, Dr. Pall Uriah Snoad.

    As Dr. Snoad's personally appointed curator, I am proud to be associated with the eminently interesting and obviously one-of-a-kind individual.  He has unselfishly stipulated that these historically significant archives remain as open public documents.  Readers are free to use any of the material contained within this site as long as notification is provided to Saundra at, Snoadcurator@tangledrealities.com, along with proper credit to the source.  

    Like many persons of exceptional creative talent, (see STRANGE BRAINS AND GENIUS by Clifford A. Pickover), Dr. Snoad has several personality quirks that should be noted here.  The most prominent trait is a distinct aversion to social contact, which, unfortunately, has prevented his work from being shown outside a very limited circle.  For this reason I was engaged to correlate and assemble the Snoad material into this virtual format so that it might be of benefit to a wider audience.  I have been given freedom to include any additional comments from my own point of view.

     For the sake of authenticity and to retain the unique flavor of Dr. Snoad's journals, the original entries and photographs have been faithfully copied directly from his journal pages.  It will be noted that Dr. Snoad's methods of recording data are often dictated by field conditions and therefore the reader can expect a wide variety of visual experience.  Current material is presented further down on this page, and archives of the remainder of Dr. Snoad's work is available at:
     Ideas: beliefs in action - 5 sec. @28.8
     Correspondence: consciousness translated 5 sec. @28.8
     Art: spirit made visible - 15 sec. @28.8   
    
    It should also be noted that Dr. Snoad's work is an ongoing process as he is constantly assimilating new experiences and data.  He continues to roam about at random in various states of consciousness and frequently makes new material available to me for inclusion in The Book of Personal Reality, so readers are encouraged to bookmark this page to check for interesting developments.

    All of the remaining photographic and artifacts collections are contained on the following pages: 
   Cultural Artifacts - if you like cultural trash 52 sec. is worth the wait
   Cosmic Kitchen - 31 seconds @ 28.8 bps
   Oh, the Humanity - 28 seconds @ 28.8 bps
  
     Your comments may be addressed to Saundra at snoadcurator@tangledrealities.com and I will forward them to Dr. Snoad in the field.    
   

THE BOOK OF PERSONAL REALITY

   5 short outs shy of going to the big show.  Cubs couldn't quite get over the hump.  Maybe next year.  Everyone is sick of seeing the Yankees in the series, so we will just have to root for the Marlins.

   Cubs Win! Cubs Win!  The Braves suck.  

   There is that certain chill descending after the sun gets low.  The drone of air conditioners is dying out just as the crickets really get in their groove.  The cool air feels good drifting through the house at night.  By early morning a blanket begins to feel necessary and the down stairs windows have to be shut for a while.  My little grotto for sunning is being replaced by a cool shade but I am reluctant to put away the lawn chair.  Images of ice and snow flash before me and I shake my head to bring back the green grass.

   What is it?  Creeping mass of undefined filaments of organic origin or something regurgitated from the bowels of a hideous mistake.

   2 years.  Has anything changed?  Has our government apprehended the perpetrators of 9-11?  Has the passage of the ironically named Patriot Act made our nation more secure or has it merely continued the gradual destruction of our freedom in the name of security?  How can freedom be secured by sacrificing it?   Will the billions of dollars spent on the so-called war with Iraq make us any safer from terrorism? 

   Crawling along at ant's eye level, looking for that lost sliver of wood, this piece of cellulose interested the pattern selector.  Interest turned into fascination and then into the artifact we all have been waiting to see.  Nothing else will ever come along that looks like this. Observe and record.  Memorize and categorize.  

   Labor day.  Not much of a holiday considering it signals the end of the glorious days of summer.  Even less of a holiday since it is going to rain all day.  Pull the covers over the head and hibernate for 6 months.  Winter, ugh.  Florida is the place to be but you better get going.  The state will own most of the land before long and there will be no where to live.
   The doors and windows are open now and the crickets are singing a serenade for the last days of summer.  Rain drops drip off the soaked tree leaves and a thin fog of heavy moist air glides through the room, bringing the smell of damp vegetation and change.

   In August of 1939 my father and brother sat down to the season's best from that fine, rich river bottom soil down home.  I can smell that special sweet aroma of a red ripe watermelon busting open now and I wish I could be there with them to smear it all over my face.  Those fat dark green rascals are so field ripe that you only have to stick the knife in a little and a long splitting rip runs across the rotund body.  I can see him taking his hands and pulling the halves apart now and my brother's eyes lighting up at the sight of all that juicy red meat, just ready to eat.  There is nothing finer than gorging on watermelon in the late summer shade.  

   Where else but in the heart of America can you see a homegrown state fair queen riding on a float pulled by a tractor?  Where else can you see a parade of antique tractors with ooh-gaa horns honking at the local cuties?  Where else can you get deep fried corn-dogs, elephant ears, twinkies, and veggies, or grilled corn-on-the-cob, lamb burgers, pork chops, tenderloins, hamburgers and pork butt on a stick?
   To keep from over dosing on grease you also have to go see the prize-winning pumpkins, squash, tomatoes, and every other plant life know to exist in the state.  If you have a strong stomach you can go for a ride on the twisting, twirling, spinning and shaking midway rides, or toss a few dollars down the drain trying to win a cheap toy.
   Better yet, get a lemon shake-up, find a shady seat in the middle of the teeming masses and watch humanity passing the time eating and playing on a hot August afternoon.

   Out on another buy again.  This time I had to drive much further out into the sticks, but at least the directions were good.  2 daughters had made the painful decision to sell their deceased mother's life time accumulation and I spent nearly 2 hours going through a lot of mildewed clothing stored in garment bags in the basement.  I could feel the dampness as I followed them down but I was rewarded with some good finds.  
    The best pieces were a 1914 white eyelet linen dress with matching gigantic picture hat, covered with a pile of decaying white maribou feathers.  The aged father eventually came out of his room to watch in silence as they sold off a lifetime of memories.  I felt for him because I went through the same situation just over a year ago.
   2 teenage granddaughters appeared to look over the clothing and decide if they wanted anything.  I cringed when they began trying on badly mildewed clothing but they didn't seem to notice.  I had to press on the older women to get them to make a decision to sell so I could leave.  They talked it over and finally let me have my picks for a good price.  They just wanted to get the process over with and I'm sure the next step was to get the father to move out of the too big home.

   I went on a buy today, driving way out beyond where I usually go, but it was a dry run.  As usual the seller did not have a clue about his clothing.  50s and 60s turned out to be 80s and 90s.  I'm just not into that stuff yet.  
   He was proud of his wealth and position and took a lot of time escorting me through the rooms of his obviously quite expensive 5 bedroom home for 2 people.  A big rotund fellow from New York, he had gotten stuck in this back water town because of his obviously important job and was disappointed no one was interested in his obviously expensive, but outdated designer clothing.
   He was horrified when he tried to donate a $2000 suit to Goodwill and they just threw it on the top of the pile of other generic clothing that was waiting to be priced.  Imagine throwing such a great piece of obviously expensive clothing in with a bunch of ordinary, smelly, no-name drek.  Well, maybe Goodwill is not as sharp about designer clothing as their obviously expensive ad would lead you to believe.
   I obviously would not have been able to afford any of his designer clothing anyway so I departed with my wallet intact and let him ponder who, in this obviously untutored town, would be able to appreciate his superior selections.  In the meantime his $2000 investment is headed down the drain.

I am back in my childhood home with D. We are running around the house naked. I go to get something out of the refrig and notice the door is missing as well as the contents. I go find D and ask her what happened to the door but she won't tell me. She starts to give an explanation but it only comes out as a mumble. I keep insisting she tell me what happened to the door, with no luck. I have a feeling the reason is not good. She shows me where she has been working to clean out and defrost the refrig. I see detailed images of empty freezer racks and parts of all shapes and sizes. I realize she is attempting to distract me from my question by showing other parts. I keep insisting she tell me what happened to the door, but instead she shows me the defrosted freezer with bits of ice stuck to the coils. I am very disturbed that she won't tell me what became of the door(s).

During this show and no tell we begin to hear loud voices in another part of the house. We become alarmed and I peek out the door of our room to see if anyone is looking. I don' t want any possible burglars to see me naked so I quickly run to my childhood bedroom to retrieve my pistol. I am dismayed to find it is not functional. It is an automatic but breaks like a six-shooter. I can't get it to go back together and damaged bullets keep falling out of it. I suspect I reassembled it improperly when I last cleaned it. The bullets have been shoved back into the shell casing as if jammed.

I try to hold the pistol in my hand so the damage won't show and go into the room with 2 bandits. They are casual about their intrusion and pay little attention to the pistol in my hand. I realize it will be ineffective against them. We banter back and forth about their purpose in the house until they grab me in a most unpleasant manner. I feel violated and impotent to stop them. I begin devising other plans to eject them. I think of a shot gun I have but I cannot get to it. Somehow the empty, doorless freezer plays a part in this scene but I cannot make the connection. D is standing by helpless, watching as I attempt to deal with the intruders.

I pull the pistol back out of my pocket and run off to try and reassemble it. I break it down and notice the parts do not look the same as I remember. After breaking it down it looks too complicated to reassemble. I see detailed images of intricate machined parts that fit closely together but I cannot solve the puzzle. The bandits watch my efforts without concern and the scene begins to fade.

I back in the same room with the bandits, only this time I have a functional six-shooter which I am pointing at them. They are still unconcerned and I do not have the courage to pull the trigger. I do not want to kill them so I am estimating where I can shoot them without causing too much harm. The six-shooter fades and becomes a shotgun, which I realize will cause ever greater damage. I cannot pull the trigger and the scene fades as I awaken.

   There is a look in their eyes that defies description.  I can hardly bear to look at them when they are in their prime.  They come out on the stage to perform for us and that which bursts forth is of prime essence.  Every word, every inflection, every movement of their divine body shoots showers of incredible glory all about and I shudder with awe at the moment.  They are immortal, as so are we all,  and together we weave together this event now, in the past for the future.
   His name is Bob Hope and he brings others with him to sing and joke and bless the warriors who long for a touch of home.  Judy Garland sings Over the Rainbow, and the house comes down.  His voice carries over the crowd and we laugh as he gives of himself for us.
   Bob Hope is The King of Comedy.  Bob Hope is the King of Hearts. 

  

      I am going on a fishing trip with W---- and his cousin, L----, my 2 best childhood friends. The rough country road we are on looks very familiar, yet I cannot place where I have seen it. I see several large tangles of driftwood and dead trees along the very convoluted drive. For some reason we go in 2 cars. I am driving L---'s small compact and they are in a large bus.

   I am in a hospital/clinic being examined for military service, a la the Fred Astaire movie snippet I watched yesterday. 2 doctors are standing around a table eating snacks and I walk up to the table and notice there are 2 large spiders crawling around on the wicker basket that holds the food. They don't seem to notice. The other examinees have all left the room and I am being held waiting for the final test. Nobody will finish my exam so I begin to feel anxiety about getting out of the situation.

   The scene shifts and I'm being harassed by several unrecognized thug types and I am trying to figure out how to get out of the situation. Finally, as one approaches to do me bodily harm I manage to whack him over the head with a death dealing blow. I am concerned about the moral consequences of my self defense but don't have much time to consider it as the other thugs are rushing in to kill me. I race for the stairwell as I know I can use my stair hopping expertise to escape them. I hurtle down the steps by covering each floor with only one or two leaping bounds. After several floors I can hear them following from above so I decide to enter the next floor of the hospital and race through the ward to the other end. I am going so fast that the nurses barely have time to notice me and I enter the opposite stairwell to continue my head long dash down to safety.

   Scene fades and I'm back in the original exam room looking out the window at the curb below. The doctors are concerned about taking care of the narrow grassy area near the building. I notice a 60s Dodge Charger has wrecked and messed up the carefully manicured grass. Scene shifts and I am wrestling some sort of vehicle, trying to make it stop and instead wreck it and cause a lot of damage to the grassy area. The doctors are chagrined.

   2 friends ready to be treated out for dinner.  I guess that's my cue to get out the credit card and have the limo brought around.  2 New York strips and a cat fish dinner later we had to be assisted back to the limo.  No further food will be necessary for several days.  Good evening, ladies.

   I have always been amazed at the way an ordinary observer lends so much more credence and attaches so much more importance to waking events than to those occurring in dreams.
                                                                  Andre Breton, surrealist artist

   Sometimes those fancy special effects filters that come with image editors produce an image that doesn't look like you used a special effect.  Of course I have given away my hand now.  I could have claimed this as an original hand-painted abstraction and who would have known.  Nevertheless, it is a truly unique original image, never before seen, until now.  The base image is a close-up of wild mushrooms on their rotten wood host.

   Without warning it struck in the night.  From its floating castle of water and boiling energy it took a jagged, tortured path to the tip of the waving spire of cellulose.  In the white hot glare of its descent it chose a random walk downward, skipping and stuttering as its hot energy of racing atoms tore through the cellulose like hot butter.  With its destination close it ricocheted across the gap to seek an underground passage of wire, tearing earth and grass in its wake.  Like a mad sprite of electricity it hopped along its guide, merging and skipping away but faithfully following its inescapable urge to end its journey in a blinding flash of burning sparks.

   Redder than blood, burning in the late evening sun, my little red chair would spontaneously ignite if it got any hotter or redder.  Occupation is its occupation and when not occupied it occupies itself by grooming its surface for future occupation.  Form follows function.

   Another shot in my window light series from yesterday.  I like to collect driftwood and arrange it in artsy jumbles on the porch.  The abstract driftwood forms in the sunlight looked interesting layered with the window reflection.

   Sitting in my favorite spot outside I watched the late evening sun descend, drawing its light across the dirty window until I was compelled to go get my cam and catch the view before it changed.  I love the late evening sunlight.  It has a intense quality like no other time of day and makes objects jump out in surreality.  They begin to glow brightly as if the sunlight is infusing their interior with molten light so intense that it bursts through to the surface.  
   I want to send myself out like a little sprite to hover above the branches of leaves high up at the top of trees, so that I can absorb this glowing golden light.  I want to live out an entire life sitting at ease out on the tip of the uppermost leaf on the tallest tree until I melt and fade away with the setting sun.