Rosie Scott of ‘A Country Too Far’ and ‘Faith Singer’, an interview

A Country Too FarI interviewed the prolific and compassionate author/editor/educator, Rosie Scott, on how the social and cultural influences in her life have informed her literary work and passion. Read my narrative on Rosie HERE or check out the piece in the READING menu.

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This is why (Written on a leaf, in the wind)

heartMy heart is hurting. My soul is sick. My spirit is gone. I have been labouring with indescribable pain for some months now, but more so in the past three weeks. Somehow, the aches and pains in my body—due perhaps to deep-seated stress and physical abuse and exhaustion—have literally crippled me and unreservedly confined me to the invisible but lonely shackles of my bed.

I have not experienced profound sadness for such a long time that it took me by surprise one morning when I woke up to a gloomy, stormy morning. Over and over again, for the past two weeks or so, I would wake up to the loneliness that seems to paint over the sky with more rain than one could possibly want.

The tears have not come, until now, as I write this down half-heartedly. Tears without sobs, without the forewarned restricting of the throat, without the contortions of the shoulders and the arms and the muscles and the face. Just streaming down my rugged cheeks, slow as the trickling of the last remnants of raindrops on the surface outlines of a leaf.

I cry because I am lonely for something that has been missing in my life. I cry because I miss my mother. I cry because I wish to be different, but could not for the life of me do anything worthwhile to achieve that goal. I cry because of the emptiness in me that no one, not even myself, could explain. I cry because of the isolation I have put myself in. I cry because I feel insecure about myself. I cry because I have lost my self-worth, forever elusive in a world full of ambiguity. I cry because I feel abandoned. I cry because of the lack of respect and redemption in my line of work. I cry because of Christmas.

I cry because there is nothing I could think of that would change the way I feel right now. I cry because I cannot do all the things I have planned to do. I cry because I am tired. I cry because I am sick. I cry because my spirit for new things and new places and new people and new dreams has gone. I cry for the nondescript future that awaits not just me but everyone. I cry because… just because.

For a long time, and more often than I can remember, people have always judged me and continue to do so. It is not a pleasant situation and certainly not a comfortable place to be in. But the social norms and traditions that police my behaviour—the traditional forms of civility and etiquette severely lacking among a lot of people these days—prevent me from hollering and making a big fuss. As a result, the pent-up feelings of frustration and resentment have perhaps pushed my spirit deeper. The will to react, act, feel, assimilate, adopt, adapt, empathise, give, receive, love and live, has been pushed further back down, deeper into the recesses of the soul.

I like to give. I like to say yes all the time. Yes, to everything. Here, take this. Here, this is for you. There, from me to you. It has been a constant, never-ending, unstoppable ritual of giving and giving. Over and over. Boundless. Flattering. Unwavering.

It has been like that for as long as I can remember. But, now, I have reached the point where I am suddenly empty to begin with. I find that I have run out of anything else to give. I have tried to scrape the last remaining grains from the seemingly bottomless well of my heart and soul, but all I could find is the empty feeling of air and the smell of dried-up earth. Then the crying begins again.

I cry because I cannot give anything anymore. I cry because I have run out of good graces and soft kisses. I cry because I could not find a compassionate touch that would make me feel better. I cry because I am barren. I cry because I am spiritually impotent. I cry because I have become a lone weed in a desert of eternal summer. I cry because winter has stayed too long. I cry because I have nothing else to give. I cry because I cannot give anything anymore. I cry because I have nothing else to give. I cry because… just because.

So what is the cure for this profundity? I am down. I am not all right. But I know I will be. In time. I just need time. Time to seek the answers. Time to seek reassurance that I am not alone. Time to think. Time to sleep. Time to rest. Time to cry. Time to then dry my eyes. Time to find smile. Time to smile again. Time to seek serenity. Time to refresh. Time to replenish. So I can start giving again. Time to heal. Time to heal. Time to heal.

Artwork © 2014 Ramon Loyola

Thank you, (Amazon) Canada!

NotPoemsJustWordsGOOD NEWS WEEK 2: Who knew? Three weeks of being released on Amazon.com, ‘not poems, just words‘ started popping up in all of the Amazon sites around the world, and in Apple iBooks on iTunes and other online sites. But here’s a GOOD NEWS WEEK 2 post. The paperback is currently #21 in Canada’s Amazon.ca Best Sellers list in Poetry>Love Poems category, and #2 in the Hot New Releases list in the same category. (The lists change quickly and so the reference may no longer be current, but as at the time of this post, the book ranks in those lists.) It’s awesome news, and I thank you, Canada!

http://www.amazon.ca/Best-Sellers-Books-Love-Poems/zgbs/books/933152/ref=zg_bsnr_tab_t_bs#2

http://www.amazon.ca/gp/new-releases/books/933152/ref=zg_bs_tab_t_bsnr

‘Companion’ from ‘not poems, just words’

My publisher and MoshPit Publishing maiden, Jennifer Mosher, reads ‘companion’ from ‘not poems, just words’ as part of their ‘Two Minutes on the Couch with…’ series. YOU CAN ALSO FIND THE FULL POEM HERE OR IN THE WRITING PAGE IN ‘POEMS’.

I am officially in love with Jenny’s flowing hair. The project is the copyrighted material of Jennifer Mosher and MoshPit Publishing. Thanks, Jenny!

The spectre of Orwell’s 1984 and other realities and realisms

I grew up watching television in the 1970s. Back then, we didn’t have the modern gadgets and smart appliances and devices of today. We either had the TV on or we were playing outside and making mud cakes  in the rain. Watching the colourful lives of the people on TV often made me wonder if everything was real or not. 1984cover-187x300From the real 1984 back then, to George Orwell’s creepy 1984, and then way back again to Vittorio De Sica’s The Bicycle Thief, here are my thoughts on how realism and reality TV programs of today made me think more about our different realities today. Click the link or find my written thoughts in the Reading Page.

George Orwell’s 1984, reality TV & The Bicycle Thief (On realness and realism)