Rosalind Guy's Blog, page 21

December 28, 2015

We Don’t Own Our Black Bodies

We don’t own our

black bodies.

We’re walking ghosts,

memories of our ancestors.

We’re tears that cannot

and will not be shed.

We’re hungry souls

that will not be fed.

We’re dead bodies left out

in the street.

It was once a tree.

We’re monsters terrifying

in the midst of a Dream.

We’re not safe

from the Dream.

It haunts us and murders us

sometimes from within.

We’re not safe in our

communities. We’re not

safe anywhere

our black bodies

happen to be.

The Dream won’t let us

be free.


We don’t own our

black bodies.


Peace & Love,

Rosalind


*When no one can be held accountable for the murder of a 12-year-old boy, who happens to be black, my heart bleeds. I don’t pretend to have the answers but I will acknowledge my own pain. Tears well in my eyes when I look at the face of a young child who was murdered. There’s two reasons for this: one is that I mourn another child whose life was snatched away from him before he ever had a chance to live and two, I see my own child in the face of that child. We tell our children that they must be twice as good as all others and sometimes that just is not enough.


 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on December 28, 2015 13:25

December 27, 2015

Drown

She was content

to drown

in chaos; she chose

to give up

fighting for peace

once she understood

she didn’t even own

her body.

Everywhere she went

someone

would lay claim

to her body.

Both men and women

wanted to own her.

But they all wanted to

break her to pieces.

Some clubbed her

with lies

while others

stabbed her with

the Dream

that always lived

in her heart.

Rumors swirled

about the girl

who dreamed

about holding Love

in the palm of

her hand. She

knew it did no good

to keep fighting

so she stopped

trying to swim

upstream and

just allowed herself

to drown

in chaos. It was

easier that way,

she decided.

And no one

tried to talk her

out of it.


Peace & Love,

Rosalind


 


woman drowning


Photo courtesy of : sleepgaze on tumblr.com.


 


 


 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on December 27, 2015 22:33

Beautiful Beginnings

“He knew he would fuck her the moment he saw her.”


“” Call the police if you want. They can’t unrape you.” Kyle dropped the card on the bed. He carefully swept the room with his gaze, checking to make sure that he wasn’t leaving anything behind other than his calling card.”


“Sometimes a person’s aura is so strong, a connection so pure, it’s enough to make a person want to drown in them. They’re the one. You just know it.”


Any writer worth his or her salt knows that it is his or her job to hook the reader on the first page. With the first words, the first lines. So, in the beginning, it’s my job to grab the reader at the collar and say “Come go with me.” At some point during the journey, though, I want to be able to release the reader and have him reach for my hand and say, “Yes. Let’s go.”


Because the beautiful beginning must lead somewhere, it’s up to me, as the writer, to ask myself some questions. What is the goal? What do I want the reader to feel or know? Where do I plan to take the reader? How do I want him to feel when he finally arrives at the destination? So, as I was working through the beginning of the story I’m working on (various beginnings were offered above), I started to think more about the purpose of a beautiful beginning. When I asked myself these questions and answered them, I was finally able to craft the beginning of my story. But that wasn’t the end of my work.


Now came the hard part, creating the terrain, the meat of the story, that would allow my reader to feel that he or she hadn’t been tricked. I don’t want my reader, while reading my story, to drop my hand and turn and look at me and say, “That’s not what you promised. And if they end up feeling tricked, I have to make the end result so much better than expected that the reader feels terribly happy that he or she trusted me and took the ride with me.


I have to follow through on what I promised the reader in those first lines of my story. Because beautiful beginnings are soon forgotten if the beautiful beginning doesn’t lead to an experience that’s unforgettable and almost as beautiful as the beginning. Every writer must learn that in addition to crafting an unforgettable beginning, we have to maintain the momentum as we unfold the rest of the story. If we don’t, we risk losing our captive audience. And, once lost, we may never get their attention again. So, the goal is not to lose them in the first place.


I’d said before that one of my new rituals when I’m writing is to write the words “Be present” on the top of this page. This, thanks to author James Patterson, is a reminder to myself to be present in every moment of every scene of my stories that I’m writing. It’s a reminder to keep my writing from becoming simply a physical act without any real emotion or connection. If I want my stories to make the reader cry, they first have to make me cry. So, yes, I continually remind myself to be present when I’m writing. I owe it to myself as a writer, to my readers and to my characters. They trust me to tell their stories as fully and truthfully as possible and I can’t accomplish that if my mind is somewhere else when I’m telling their stories. Another ritual I began with this story, She’ll Never Tell, the title story for the book of short stories I’m currently working on, is to write the words “Reveal slowly.” I do this to remind myself to slow down and not rush to get everything out on the page at once. I want to have something to offer my reader beyond a beautiful beginning because that’s the point, right? Who wants to experience just a bunch of beautiful beginnings that lead nowhere? We’re all trying to get somewhere when we begin a story and the writer has the obligation to uphold the promise that is inherent in the beautiful beginning.


Here’s to many beautiful beginnings that take you to new and exciting places. And not just when you’re reading. Seems that a beautiful beginning is a good thing, not just when reading a story. And, now during this last week of 2015, seems like a good time to look forward to beautiful beginnings.


Peace & Love,

Rosalind


 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on December 27, 2015 12:27

December 26, 2015

Words Not Spoken

I watched you this morning when you

went in the bathroom after we’d had sex.


I’ve seen you stand before that mirror

so many times before, but it was obvious

that this morning you were seeing something more

than what you’d ever seen before.


I saw how your shoulders drooped

and that’s when I knew that you realized it too

that all love is not absolute

and promises most assuredly can and will

be broken. These were words that wouldn’t

be spoken, but I saw them there written all over

your body. In the way you walked, the way you talked,

the way you held me tight

as if though this would be the last time.


Your body communicates a message

I cannot misinterpret

In that moment I know

we have been speaking for years

yet not really saying anything.

The chaotic noise of words spoken

something to fill the void,

the one that inevitably develops

over time when incompatible souls

try to forge a bond.


You cannot extract meaning from words

without knowing intention and

if deception led me to believe

that our friendship held a value

greater than things purchased with money

then it was because I was ignorant to intention.

I never knew I could be so easily deceived

into believing

that “twin souls” is more than propaganda

to inflate expectations and that

the Love that was sitting on the side

of my bed

was just a mere illusion

an excuse to

make a home away from home,

a place where I could be with you.


Suddenly you were carrying the

weight of truth

on your shoulders and truth unveiled

is hard to carry when you’re used to

carrying the honeysweet feather weight of

lies and deceptions.

Some words are spoken because of how easy

you carry them.

I love you is much easier to shoulder than

I don’t think I’ve ever loved you

so you keep carrying around expired love

until you can’t carry it anymore.


No truthful words filled the void

that was ripped open between us.

I wish you had been able to tell me the truth.

Why did it have to be revealed by me

noticing how you carried things differently?

How long have you been

shifting and groaning under the weight of

expired love because you were afraid to admit that you

no longer felt the same?

I can go back to the day I thought I knew

that you were preparing to walk away

that you were ready to become

a ghost memory of a Love that

never really existed

or a Love that was strangled

by veiled intentions.


Peace & Love,

Rosalind


 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on December 26, 2015 12:58

December 23, 2015

Barbie and Ken

She wanted a knight

in shining armor.

He saw the longing

in her eyes, knew she wanted

to be saved. But

he wasn’t in the damsel-saving

business.


He was looking for Barbie

not a Queen

so he bought her things

like a Dream Car and Dream House

sitting atop a hill far away

from those who loved her.

Left her feeling like

a poor miller’s daughter

who might be able to

spin straw into gold.

But life is not a fairy tale.


Still

he filled her Dream House

with lots of Dream things

like red bottoms, rings, and

other expensive things.

Never a crown though

because she could never be

his Queen.


He bought her lots of

plastic toys, showed her

plastic Barbie love and

the shiny new things

convinced her

that his love was real

but not even the rings

he bought her

could withstand the heat

of her needing.


She was Barbie

and he was Ken

and he spent a lifetime

buying things to fill up

their Barbie Dream House

but it was never a home

because plastic love ain’t love

it’s merely a distraction

a trick of the eye, heart, and soul

to make you believe

all that glitters is gold or

that a house is always a home.


Peace & Love,

Rosalind


rumplestiltskin


 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on December 23, 2015 12:40

December 22, 2015

Pas Peur

“All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.” – Anatole France


Change terrifies the best of us. We get so comfortable with things the way they are that we fight change—even when the change promises to be positive for us – with all that we have.


I’m the type of person who, once I begin something, I like to see it through to the end before I begin something else. This is how I scratch things off my to-do list. I attack one item at a time, until all items or projects have been completed. I don’t like my concentration to be divided among tasks. Even though I am able to read several books simulatneously, I’ve fought adapting this in my writing life. It has worked for me for years, so I’ve adamantly resisted change. Until recently.


I’m currently working on a short story, She’ll Never Tell,  that will be included in a short story anthology slated to be released next year and I was about four pages in when I hit a creative wall. And, for days, I just sat there staring at that wall. As is my habit, I fought starting over even though the idea had floated into my mind a time or two. No, I stubbornly resisted. This old way has always worked for me.


Except it wasn’t working this time. At the point where I was, I just couldn’t come up with one single word to write. I knew, in my mind, what I wanted to have happen and why the scene was important, but I couldn’t move beyond thoughts. I had and have this picture in my mind of the scene unfolding, but I couldn’t write it down on paper.


After a few days of non-movement, I decided that I had to do something or this story would never get written (re-written really). So, I went and printed off the four pages I did have already and I started over with those pages. And, you know what, there was movement. I felt newly inspired. There was new fire to get the project moving along. No, it’s not how I normally do things. But the way I normally do things wasn’t working this time, so I had to change. And I’m glad I did.


I was afraid to start over because I feared I would become stuck in the cycle of re-writing my beginning until I completely lost sight of the middle. But that didn’t happen. I was able to get past the beginning, move through the middle and saw my way to the end.


Some people, maybe most people, resist change. They become so comfortable to what they’re used to that fear of change keeps them from venturing into new territory. I’m learning to welcome change. No matter what change it is, I want to welcome it. In the new year, I hope I’m met with lots of change; it’ll mean I’m becoming unhinged from the old and welcoming the new.


Here’s to a year of changes!


Peace & Love,

Rosalind


 


 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on December 22, 2015 19:39

December 18, 2015

Love on Life Support

I was walking around

the other day,

making my rounds

when I checked in on Love

and discovered Love was dying.

I quickly placed Love on

life support,

tried to resuscitate Love.

But I went ahead and

started saying good-bye.

Artificial life, I knew,

could never truly sustain Love

for very long.

It’s just a matter of time

before Love is gone

for good. And I, at least,

wanted to say one final good-bye

so Love would know

I valued his presence in my life

and though he was leaving

and the good-bye was final

Love’s passing wouldn’t be

tainted with swollen words

unspoken and the cancer of

regrets.


Peace & Love,

Rosalind


love on life support


 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on December 18, 2015 06:37

December 17, 2015

Breaking All the Rules

What’s the absolute worst thing that could happen while you’re halfway through a James Patterson novel? Right. Misplacing it. One of the books I’m currently reading is Four Blind Mice by James Patterson and yesterday I realized I didn’t know where I’m left it. I knew I’d been reading it while I was lying in the bed, but I didn’t see it anywhere around my bed. I knew I’d had it in my purse when I was at work, so I told myself that maybe I took it out and left it in my classroom. I suffered withdrawals all evening, wanting to finish that book. But I picked up Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison to hold me over until I could get back to Patterson’s book.


When I got to work, the book wasn’t there. Now what, I wondered. Right. I went to the bookstore after work and bought another copy of the book. You might be wondering what does this have to do with breaking rules, Rosalind. I’ll tell you.


When I bought the new copy of the book, I was going through the pages trying to find where I’d left off. As I was re-reading some of the chapters, I realized I was jumping around in characters’ heads. At one point, I was reading first person point of view in Alex Cross’ head and then I was reading third person limited in a seemingly insignificant character’s head and then I was back to first person point of view inside John Sampson’s (Alex Cross’ friend and partner) head. I hadn’t noticed it before because I was so caught up in the story. Patterson is one of those writers who tells a story and it catches you up from page one and you just don’t want to put the book down until you’ve finished the story. Reading it this way, I realized Patterson was definitely breaking a rule. My mind flashed back to one of the video “lectures” from James Patterson’s MasterClass where he mentioned that sometimes he jumps around like that.


Now, I’ve been telling (and I’m sure other writing teachers have as well) my students to choose a point of view and stick with it. We tell them to choose the one that will help them tell the best story. When I was workshopped not long ago, one of the critiques was that I’d shifted point of view. I, of course, fixed it in the revisions. But who’s going to tell Patterson that he’s doing it wrong? No one. It works. For Patterson.


When I was looking for his book tonight at the bookstore, I had to scan four shelves of books (all Patterson novels) to find the one I was looking for. Breaking the rules works for him. But I’d venture to say it works because he learned the rules first and then realized that to achieve what he wanted to, he needed to break the rules. So, yes, break the rules. But learn them first. So you’ll know why you need to break them.


As I was writing this post, I recalled a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.” In other words, be you, do you and don’t worry about what anybody else is doing. If it feels right for your story, it’s probably right.


Peace & Love,

Rosalind


P.S. I found the other Patterson book. It had fallen under my bed and I hadn’t stretched my arms long enough under there to reach it. Still, there’s a moral here. Despite the fact that Patterson tends to break a rule or two, the fact still remains that he tells  a story so well that when you misplace a book while you’re in the middle of reading it, you will run right out and buy the book because you just can’t wait to finish it.


 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on December 17, 2015 22:27

December 16, 2015

Footsteps in the Sand

Your words fell like

footsteps in the sand.

I followed the path

laid out by your words

only to never be seen again.

I lost my way and went

where nobody could find me.

I tried to get back to you

but the glare in my eyes

were the blurred lines

that blocked my view of you.


When I re-traced my steps,

tried to find you again

I walked back to a place

where all the grains of sand

had been smoothed over

by years of disuse. No

trace remained of your

footsteps in the sand.

And I was never able to find

my way back to you again.


Peace & Love,

Rosalind


 


footsteps in the sand


 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on December 16, 2015 10:49

December 13, 2015

Women Who Eat the Sky

She lay on her back at night

her head turned to the side,

always facing the wall

too tired to face forward. She

desired only to conceal  the sadness

welling in her eyes. She was beyond

crying. Gazing outside of herself

was how she learned to yearn for the sky.

She wasn’t like the others who simply

wanted to be far away, praying to

feel lighter only. No. She yearned to taste

the sky. The heavier love became to

carry, nights were spent leaning her

head against the cold porcelain. She

would spend hours regurgitating the

bruised love that was burdening her soul.


She wanted wings, that part is true,

so she could fly far away one day &

on that day, she’d finally eat the sky.


Filling up her soul with patches of blue sky

was all she wanted. If it happened to be

raining on that day, she knew

she would close her eyes

as God’s tears would fill her to bloating inside.

But if the sun were up high in the sky,

she worried it would reach out to touch her

and melt her wings.


If only she could peel back layers of

herself, she’d have so much less to carry.

She was always planning, planning for the day

when she’d finally be able to take flight

and go where women like her could spend

all their days and nights feasting on the sky.


Peace & Love,

Rosalind


sun goddess 2


 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on December 13, 2015 18:54