I haven't changed much

Many thanks to Kathy for inviting me to contribute to Writer's Rising. I can see I am in good company. Kathy asked me to introduce myself in my first post. At the age of 44 I don't have an impressive biography. I do have a good education, good relationships, somewhere nice to live, good health, and a purpose. I'm not going to say much more about those things here. Instead I'm writing about the 2 things about me that haven't changed in nearly 40 years. I figure that these things are very essential and core information about who I really am, so they will suffice as my introduction as a new contributor on Writer's Rising.

The first core truth about me is that I love the natural world so much that I collect souvenirs.
Picture this. A blood red 2 door Torana. My lovely mother in a head scarf,and my handsome dad driving. Five (yes 5!) children aged 5-8.5 years in the back seat. Yummy foods, drinks, a blanket and some Lazy Boy chairs in the boot. Destination? Weekend family picnic.

Imagine this. The winding roads and sharp bends leading to the picnic grounds are exaggerated by the pile-up of kids against the 'lucky' two with the window seats. Car sickness complaints are rising from the back seat in anticipation of a travel lozenge doled out to 5 sweaty hands.

Here is a photo of my sister and I aged 6 and 5 years at one of our weekend family picnics. We are holding hands and shyly smiling. Our outfits are identical from the shoes up and so are our haircuts. I am the younger sister on the right. My sister's right hand grasps my right hand and in my left I am holding something. It's difficult to see what it might be. Recently, as I scanned this photo and it was magnified on my laptop screen, I realised that I was holding a small blossom.

Forty years later and my sister and I rarely, if ever, hold hands. We have different tastes in clothing and very different hair styles. But I still bring home souvenirs from my almost daily forays into the natural world. At the moment I have a bottlebrush in a glass near my kitchen sink. Tomorrow it will be something else. Yesterday it was a large fragrant pine needle branch and the many days of nature walks before have seen feathers, shells, flowers, and bright autumn leaves find a home on my sink. When I look at these momentoes throughout the day I am transported back to my walk. Loving nature and bringing it home with me is something I have always done and will probably always do.

The second essential and enduring thing about me is that I love and respect the library and its contents. I know how dorky and nerdy that sounds believe me. Let me explain.

When my 4 siblings and I were growing up our lives were very routine. My mum was a nurse from the 'old school', so breakfast was at 7am, morning tea at 10am, lunch at 12, afternoon tea at 3pm and dinner at 6pm. Mass every Sunday and every Friday night was a whole family trip to the library and fish and chips for dinner.

We lived in a small seaside town so the fish and chips were good. Along with enough chips for a family of seven we ordered potato scallops, fish and sometimes dim sims. These were eaten at home later with pickled onions and fresh white bread. Five Twin Pole icecreams were paid for and wrapped in newspaper ready to collect with our order.

While the fish and chips fried we all went to the library. This was the highlight of my week. I loved the silence, the order and the anticipation and smell of the books.

We were allowed 3 books each so that meant that 15 books came home for the week. I learned to read at age 3 to keep up with my older siblings. There were many whispered discussions in the library stacks before we all agreed about what was coming home that week. The chosen 15 were shared around. Subjects varied from cricket and football to sewing and the Famous Five series. By the time we had all finished primary school we had read every book in the kids section a few times and had moved on to the adult section. At home we read comics and magazines and the newspaper. We each had a book case in our bedrooms filled with books, and we had quiet reading time for 1-2 hours in the afternoon during the holidays and on weekends.

Today I read at least 2 or 3 books a week. This has helped me get through a University degree and post graduate studies. I still love the library. I have worked in the University library as a student searching for rare books, retrieving books from basement collections and scanning and sending articles and chapters to external students. I love entering a library and feeling the excitement of bringing a few books home with me. Reading has helped me find solutions for many of the problems I have had. There is always someone going through something similar and there is always someone writing about it.

Words Become Honey

I remember sitting in my 5th grade class when the teacher asked us to compose a short story. She may as well have told me I could skip ahead 6 grades--this was how giddy, and ecstatic it made me. With little legs swinging joyously under the desk, I set about to capture in words the onslaught of imagery that filled my head onto paper. My imagination took a flying, soaring, roaring delicious leap, with chapters, and chapters of adventures for my characters to fulfill. In my mind's eye, I saw an entire book in vivid movie form not "just" a short story.

Somehow I missed the part where she told us we had only an hour to achieve the writing task. When she told us to pass our papers forward, I nearly fainted. It was like I had drawn an elaborate picture, and then had my crayons abruptly taken away before I could finish coloring it. I got a D. Not because of my writing, but because I didn't turn in a complete story with a beginning, middle, and conclusion. [insert a BIG sigh here] I was crushed but not entirely squashed. I went home and continued to work on it anyway. That's when I first discovered my passion for writing. I've been chasing it with a butterfly net full of paper and pens ever since.

Three years later, at age 13, I wrote my first song. It was 1965 a year after the Beatle's Invasion. The kids in my class told our teacher I'd written a song, and much to my surprise, she asked me to get up in front of the classroom, and sing it for everybody. Shyness nearly robbed me of that moment of glory but wobbly kneed, and with a weak voice, I did it. The kids loved it but I'm sure the teacher had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. For me it was a taste of honey I've hungered for ever since.

Beatle boots and a surfer haircut
That's what I like
Tight pants and a leather jacket
Riding on a motor bike

There was more to the song I just don't remember it. I'm surprised I remember that much of it. I even remember the melody, and could sing it to you some 44 years later. But don't ask me what I ate for breakfast yesterday. I'd be hard pressed to tell you.

That's me in the picture performing at a beauty pageant in SO CA in 1970 at age 17. I wrote, and sang a song I composed. The next day, the newspaper headline said, "New Queen Can't Read Or Write Music But She Can Compose". I received my first standing ovation, and won the competition which led me to compete in the next leg to the Miss California pageant. I didn't win that next pageant but a new dream of writing simmered under my rhinestone crown, and filled my mouth with honey once again.

That dream never left me, and I did indeed grow up to become a singer-songwriter with nearly 25 years under my belt of singing professionally. I've recorded three projects/albums and toured nationwide. You can check out my photo journal here that highlights my bands, and documents my steps along the way. Out of that journey I realized writing in all forms was like medicine to my soul. Seven of my short stories have been published and my forthcoming book, "Six Days to Haight-Ashbury" is as good as it's gets for a girl who's favorite song is Over the Rainbow.

"Six Days To Haight-Ashbury"
A young girl sticks her thumb out to find the Summer of Love

Lille Diane's forthcoming book chronicles one of the most colorful times in history during the last century--the magical sixties. In 1967 the California freeways were lined with hippies seeking ways to tune out, and turn on to freedom from the establishment. Like 100,000's of young people, Lille stuck her thumb out on a freeway on ramp to find peace, and love in San Francisco's historical Haight-Ashbury district. Those six days became a lifetime to a 16 year old girl.

"Riveting, and real!" readers say. Take a trip back in time to see what all the fuss was about, and to find out what she was running from.....

To read an excerpt click HERE.

My blog Woodstock Lily has given me yet another outlet to use writing but this time as a healing balm. After a bad auto accident in May 2008 I was diagnosed with PTSD, post traumatic stress disorder. I'm using writing, art, photography and blogging to help me jump back into life again.

Thank you, Kathy, for inviting me to be a part of this writer's group. I feel like swinging my child heart's skinny legs under my desk, and humming a tune loudly for all the world to hear. That's how happy I am to be a part of this. Thank you fellow writers, for I know inspiration will drip like honey from each one of you. How exciting to have a place to come together, to meet, to grow, and to cheer each other on. I'll stop by to visit your blogs or websites, too. Now I know ya'll are dying to ask me.... go ahead.... ask me to sing that song I wrote in the 5th grade... you know you wanna.

Biography: Rayn Roberts

I've been asked to post a bio so people know me better. I have a profile on here in case anyone wants more.... Here you go:

Rayn Roberts moved to Seattle from Asia where he lived and worked in Japan and Korea for 15 years; the last 8 out of 9 years in Korea. He appears in print and online in Rattle, The Sow's Ear Review, Voices in Wartime, PoetsWest, Chronogram, The Pedestal Magazine, Rattapallax and other journals plus four anthologies.

http://this.is/poems/hope/main.html

His poetry is heard on radio in PoetsWest programs and is available on CD from PoetsWest in Seattle. In 2006, Celestial Arts, Berkely/Toronto, included him in their book, "Illuminations" on interfaith understanding. www.illuminationsbook.com His last book, “Of One and Many Worlds” and others are available from Poetic Matrix Press, Amazon, Barnes & Noble and numerous small book dealers.

http://www.poeticmatrix.com/Press/Rayn.html

It's About Time

I know, I know, it's about time I start posting...So..O.K..I am a very shy person..Here we go....In the beginning, I'll say a huge "thank you" to Katherine for inviting me here and another equally big "thanks" to the other members, for having me here.

Now, the hard bit...something about myself...where to start? I was born in Romania 44 years ago and I am currently living in Israel (long story, another time). I am a former journalist that tried to be an English teacher (in Israel) and failed with flying colors! I am currently a staying at home mum, and of course, I am called "imaaaaaaaa" (mother in Hebrew) by my three years old baby-girl Maya and my 24 years old son, Darie.

Back in Romania, in my glorious days as a journalist I published a book, a traveling/history/personal experiences type about Israel. It is called "Between the Central Bus Station and The Wailing Wall". But that was a long time ago, in another life...Now, I am working at a big, secret project, a fiction book, and it is really big for me as I attempt to write it in English...I am training my hand in writing here: http://aloneinholyland.blogspot.com/ where I watch my life unfolding before my eyes, where I can go and live among my memories from time to time...

That is for now...I'll be back soon. now I have to go to take Maya from the kindergarten. So glad to be here!

Where to Begin


Two concrete rectangles, steel and wood
Call one bed, the other, living room
A door in or out, a middle partition
White walls breathe and bend
The black and white floors tiles flex to feet,
The large windows let in light
A turquoise chair is married to a red desk
A white telephone has divorced a black stand
A computer is running out to shop
There is nothing but what days bring
They bring little for weeks.
One day, the visions ease
Into a pleasant unawareness and rising
One sage morning sitting with tea
Time unravels your head like a ball of twine:
A black tile lifts from the floor
Floats slowly round the room and another
A white one, begins to ascend, joining
Yet another and another, black and white tiles
Moving 'round to a secret order, a song

Fascinating, fantastic, hypnotic

A white tile holds an eye socket and one eye
Rolls out your head to fill it
A black tile has a nose pulsing and you note
One missing from your face
Ears are wings flapping in another
Fingers detached from hands
Slither into black and white,
Your body like always but lighter
Limb by limb, organ by organ
Bone upon bone coming apart without pain
The entire network of nerve, flesh, feces,
Fingernail, brain, heart, genitals
Circles the room, turning in slow motion
A wind-chime of body parts
United yet distinctly unique and alone—and then
A window to the world opens
Everything sucked out into the air, into sky, vanishes.
There is no one now where the lights burn
And the air-conditioning runs day and night, no one
To say where to look; nor where to even begin



Rayn Roberts 09

The Midday Cowboy

Hi all, thought I would add a story I wrote to get the ball rolling, it is one of the first stories I added to my blog, the Chronicles of Sharnia (back when I had no readers haha) So I thought I'd give it a re-run!!

It gives you a bit more of an idea about who I am...

- I wrote this pre-baby when I just moved from Sydney to my one horse town, it is funny I feel like a different person from when I wrote this to now - amazing : falling in love, going overseas and finding out you are 'expecting' to having a baby can make you grow up quickly - I'll add something newer soon to see if you can notice a maturity in my current style (maybe I am imagining this??!! possible!)

Thought this might be a good way to get you up to date with why I'm living in the country now from a Sydney girl working for a major newspaper to now... love your thoughts

The Midday Cowboy

Flashback!

It is one am on a Saturday Morning. I am on the dance floor in the Midnight Shift - one of Oxford Streets busiest clubs. My dancing partner could have easily have passed for a member of the Village people.

He was dressed in jodphurs, big black boots and a cowboy hat. He was topless, and he was gorgeous! We shimmied the wee hours away to Kylie, Britney and Wham.

And then the Oxford Street Cowboy suddenly shimmied off with a policeman in hot pants!

At that point I realised the only "Man Drought" that existed in Sydney was for the women.

All the gorgeous men were dancing for the other team!

How was I going to meet the man for me if I continued spending my partying time with fake Cowboys in a gay club on Oxford St?

I left the club en route to my Darlinghurst apartment. On the way I passed an array of drunk and souped-up party people screaming down the street. I was chased up the road for money by a homeless lady and was nearly run over by an irate bus driver.

For years I was convinced that dining in fancy restaurants, spending half my wage on taxis, partying all night and sleeping all day was the lifestyle for me.

I was convinced if I led a highly social existence I would meet Mr. Right on the way. It was not the centre of my universe to find him, but secretly I was getting frustrated he wasn't appearing before me.

I envisaged he would be a funky man from one of the "cool" suburbs in a creative line of work. We'd meet for cocktails after work on Thursdays, buy a shoebox flat in the Eastern Suburbs; jog through Centennial Park on Saturdays before cooling off at Bondi Beach; we would race dragon boats under the Glebe Point Bridge; attend fancy gallery and museum openings and every second Sunday we would meet our friends at a groovy cafe for brunch.

Perhaps I had watched one too many episodes of Sex and the City.

I was beelining towards my 30's and although I was having fun, I was not at peace with my place in the world.

For me, Sydney had become all about spending, looking good, being at the coolest venues and always striving for more, more, more. Quite frankly, I was exhausted.

Increasingly, the people that I met were on the same treadmill and it was hard to get off.

Something had to give, and it probably had to be me. Perhaps I needed to find my place and my man somewhere else, outside Sydney?

Fast forward one year.

It is seven am on Monday morning, on a property 10kms from Hay in South-West NSW sitting opposite a real Cowboy.

A world away from the vibrant and sleep deprived charms of Oxford Street. The only sound on the farm is the distant snorting of an angry bull.

THe air is clean and the only beggars in sight are the trees thirsty for rain.

The only Cowboy hat in this scene is an old akubra used for deterring the sun.

I look over his shoulder to the vast flat landscape and realise the drought that exists here is the real thing, not the city whinge of "man drought".

Out here in the country it is dry, it is hot - and when the men wear wide brimmed hats it is practical. They keep their shirts on to protect themselves from the burning sun.

NO longer for me the Oxford Street brasseriel I am having a cup of coffee on a porch with the real cowboy I have managed to snag!

He possesses al the qualities I have been scoping out in Sydney all those years ago - but what the Sydney men appeared to be, my Country Cowboy really is, inside and out.

So now I find myself in the country with a man. I'm living with limited access to fine restaurants and the closest thing to designer shopping is at Go-Lo and little in the way of commercialised entertainment has allowed us to find creative ways to "date". I've swapped dining in the fine eateries of Crown Street for a picnic on the Murrumbidgee River or 'paddock bashing' in the ute! I've been taught the differences between Rams and Ewes, and have learnt first hand how stupid sheep really can be.

The Cowboy keeps telling me that it is time to swap the stilettos for a pair of practical farm boots. I can handle the quiet life, the hot weather, the lack of ocean and life without a cinema. But the day I start wearing farm boots is the day I hope the Village people will come to Hay and whisk me back to Oxford Street.

FROM SUFFERING TO GRATITUDE

I feel so much gratitude these days it's hard to contain. Even when everything goes wrong, like today. (Actually, nothing goes wrong really...it just goes wrong in our own little heads. Everything is as it is.) After the craziness of the day today, I came home, put on my tennis shoes and hopped in my car and zoomed over to Carkeek Park near my house. This beach can wash away anything that ails you, I swear. Today, I arrived just in time for sunset.




A train screeched by hugging the coastline. I grabbed my down jacket and took the ramp down to stretch of sand below. The Olympic mountains shot out of the sky like seated Buddhas. They seemed to be screaming peacefully, if that's possible. Each mountain called for me to "WAKE UP." I felt the wind on my face and the wild waves crash on the shore. The sun started to fall and was so brilliant I thought it might catch the earth on fire. I closed my eyes and took in the last rays of the sun before it was swallowed up by the snow-capped mountains. A tiny circular afterglow seemed to rest in the spot where the sun had been. I felt peace. It was there all along, really...it just got covered up by the drama of the day.

I truly LOVE my job. I am an ESL teacher. It's the best job in the world because IT IS the world in my classroom. I work with immigrants and refugees from all over the world. I love them ALL. Most of the time I am in awe in my classroom. My students are my greatest teachers. I learn from them constantly.

Today, I had to meet with each one of them individually, about 30 students, to help them register for next quarter. On Tuesday night, I also met with 30 students. One by one they would filter into my classroom and sit down. I thought, "Registration, piece of cake..I'm almost done with the quarter." I set up a couple of chairs and as the students came in, they sat down across from me...many of them completely opened up, broke down, revealed secrets, whispered of divorce and pills and unemployment and pain in the head and neck and back, etc. I sat nodding my head for two hours. Sometimes the drama was so close, the chaos so strong, the pain and suffering so real, that I was not sure I could bare it. After each one would finish, they would thank me. When I came home from work, I asked my husband, "Why is there so much suffering in the world?" He kissed me and hugged me and calmed me down and then went to teach his yoga class. I felt drained, but walking along Puget Sound renewed me. I am grateful...so grateful. Grateful to everyone and everything that crosses my path. Pleasure or pain, all are my teachers.


This is literally where I stopped typing. I am not making this up. There was a knock at the door. No one ever knocks on my door. The knock was loud and hard. I looked through the peep hole and saw my neighbor. I opened the door and saw that she looked a bit panicked. She said, "Kathy, can I come in? I cut my finger and it's really bad." There was blood running out of her finger and I got a towel from the cabinet and we wrapped her finger and I told her to raise her arm over her head. We rushed out to my car and I drove her to the emergency room. They asked my neighbor, who was bleeding, to fill out two pages of medical information. Mind you, this woman just cut off most of the nail on her index finger and was bleeding profusely into the towel. I filled out part of it and she filled out as much as she could. Then we waited. Finally, they called us into the room. My neighbor laid down the gurney and we waited again. Thankfully, we got to share time together as neighbors, otherwise that time would have been long, painful and lonely if she had gone by herself. Finally, Dr. Hook (no kidding) arrived. He took the towel off and she was bleeding on the gurney as he sauntered over to the another room to see if there was any gauze. He came back with scissors, gauze, a very long needle, and cauterizing equipment. He said, "I'm going to have to put your finger to sleep." I thought, that's what they say when your pet is sick and suddenly I was reminded of all my childhood cats. He tied the finger tightly to stop the bleeding. My neighbor breathed deeply as Dr. Hook stuck the needle in to numb the finger. Then, he started cauterizing her finger. Smoke came out and it sort of smelled like something was burning on the stove. Dave with the tube gauze came in and dressed the finger. He let us know that tube gauze is very rare..it's from the 70s and you can't find it anymore. We decided we were going to get bumper stickers that said TUBE GAUZE RULES. While we waited for the nurse to check us out we stuffed my purse full of surgical gloves so that she could shower without getting her finger wet. The full moon was shining very brightly as we walked to the car. We passed the cemetery on the way out. My neighbor said, "I guess if you don't make it, they can throw you over the fence." That's how close the cemetery was.

I'm happy my neighbor came to my door and I was there. We had a very nice conversation about her job, my job, the neighborhood, winterizing her pea patch, memories, stories, life. We haven't talked in awhile..other than the wave every now and then. We talked more when the weather was hot and the neighbors were out on their porches and doorsteps. Last summer we had a block party and there were a few rounds of badminton in the backyard. There were also lots of barbecues.

The winter is long and cold and it can be hard. My neighbor is another teacher. She reminded me that we all live so close, but we don't. We can get sucked into our own little worlds and forget about the people around us. We can get sucked into the computer world and forget that there are living, breathing, BLEEDING people out there! She woke me up, just like my students woke me up.

I am so grateful for that.