No Regrets by an Unapologetical Woman

“I live with no regrets. Unapologetic. And one day at a time.”  _E.R.L.

Hello World!

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As I write I wonder, why would anyone want to read my blogs? Or what is it that will finally bring them to my pages, or my books? What can I do to get people to read me, and finally see me as a Writer/Author and not just a Sales person.

Am I even interesting enough to achieve that?

I’m not a square person for sure, as someone once called me. I’m totally out of the box, fierce and very unapologetic as my titles “suggests”.  Every morning, as the sun penetrates the sheer lime green curtains of my windows and bathe me with its glistening warm, I hesitantly open my eyes and curse at the sun for waking me up so untimely and begin my wondering.

I say to myself, “I’m awake. I’m alive, so what now?

What’s next? Where was I in my writing projects or ideas. What did I left of to complete last night, last month, or maybe last year, last 10 years to be exact?

Is it all worth it? And who will ever read me?

Will anyone ever read a Novel I wrote, or a short story? Will I finally have the courage to turn all these scribbles into a book, a novel, or just a poetry booklet to share in open mic. days, with friends and relatives? What will I be sharing with my few readers or followers that somehow read me, but rarely comment, in Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook?

Those book lovers, who fallow my random short stories and novels, will they ever buy my book?

And what if I’m sharing to much or maybe to little? What things will interest them, hook them to my work? Do the same things will interest me, if it was the other way around?  Will I even click on one of my own titles if I were them? How can I get people like me and read me, and share my stories with the world?

( By the way check out one of my books at:  http://www.lulu.com/shop/evelyn-lallave-rodriguez/poems-from-a-gypsy-soul/paperback/product-4972893.html ) Also in Amazon.com

I have so many many questions. Writing has become an obsession. Almost in an Autistic or OCD way.  Yet, this is not what I am really writing about on this post. There is more about me and my art. So much more.

You may ask, why do I care so much? Well yes, I really care too much! I want to be liked, and admired. Not judged, or ever feel irrelevant. Writing and being appreciated has made me grow as a person. It has passioned me, involved me in a dream of words and letters that wasn’t important for me before.

Fashion and makeup was my love once, reading too, but writing was something I only used to do to kill time, but not something I was interested in really sharing or in making it a blog, specially not write a book. Until one day, when I found nonowrimo (www.nanowrimo.com) and the defunct site Script Frenzy, and out of boredom and curiosity I decided to write stories and novels.

I decided to give it a shot and discover my own potential. And a miracle happened. I did not won their writing contests. But I met great people who I once probably was judgemental off. I became more confident in my intellectual beauty not just my outer beauty. I began to relearn myself through writing. And appreciating myself more for all the many varied things I was able to discover through my writings. And I learned that I was stronger and fearless too when it came to share my emotions, and my deepest thoughts. Like the old adage say , “The pen is mightier than the sword” Yes, words are mightier than the sword.

I think bloggers, journalists, writers, and artists, in general, have a bit of need for approval, and some small form of exhibitionism too, if you may.

We are a little bit of attention-addicts, opinionated people, and dreamers, just like I am. Some of us may be gifted, or geniuses turned crazy. Some are a bit crazy turned into geniuses. Or maybe a just a healthy mix of both. I consider myself to be a little bit of both.

There is a fine line for everything.

So I try to concern myself in being  myself, unapologeticaly me! Nothing more, nothing less_and breathe. Namaste! ( a yoga reference from a book I’m reading, another thing I’m getting into.)

So you are still reading! I wonder why? But please don’t stop, go on. I know, I overshare. I use the word I a lot, but if that bad habit of mine hasn’t deterred you from getting this far in the reading, please go on, and read it all till the end.

I can be very extroverted when it comes to share things with total strangers, because I don’t care if they will judge me or not. Most of the time they don’t judge, because they don’t care. Most of the time people only get to see half of who I am. Unless we are really  close friends. I have created an outer wall, even from the closest people to me. There’s many levels of friendship to me, more than the levels in Scientology, I believe. Not that I don’t trust people, is that as a person I can be a bit reserved, when I don’t know or like someone. Being hurt by people turn you into an onion, with many thin or hard layers all unique, and different. But in their own way, all the same.

In turn, as a writer I can just be bold, let my walls down and cloaks fall. I get to express my opinions bluntly and sometimes being brutally honest. It’s a total thrill to me being bold when people don’t expect me to be. I love sharing my controversial ideals, and my out of the box, points of view. Many people may not agree with me, yet they do like my sincerity and will follow me or form a discussion, a healthy discussion about this or that subject. I respect all ideas and point of views, just don’t insult mine. You won’t like my comebacks.

I hate injustice. It makes me feel so helpless when people think they can abuse others, hurt others feelings, and treat other people as less. I hate bullies. Maybe not hate but I dislike them a lot. Greatly! I was always this sort of person that stepped forward to voice out my feelings to help someone else.  I wanted to be the hero who solved everyone’s problems, and listened to everyone’s issues. Lately not so much.

I’ve changed, by becoming cynical, distant, cold, bias, and even egotistical. Those are some of the not so great things I’ve picked up since living in Florida. So many things have changed since I came here. Not the best place to live. Not the best place to make friends or grow a family. Not a great place to have dreams or follow them. Is just another sink hole by the water. A quick sands kind of place. I feel my heart sinking in as the year passed and there’s not a way out of here. Not a way to “go back home” to New York or Puerto Rico. Nothing to do with the Republican President, I was Republican once myself, a douche too…

But when I write, I am honest, soft, kind, open, and even fierce again. Overall, people’s opinions are important to me. It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it that really matters. I would usually speak up my mind, when it comes to stand for myself, though I pick my battles. If I stay quiet when someone offends me, whenever it’s possible. It may still be bothering me later and will linger on my pillow at night like a funky smell, with the akin thought that I wasn’t really there for myself, to defend myself. But you can’t just fight everyone who’s snippy or nasty with you.

Someone once told me, when I first came to Florida, “chill out kiddo, and learn to pick your fights!” and “you carry your heart on on your sleeves. That’s not a good thing…” Now I pick my fights more carefully. But I won’t stay quiet when I face or see injustice. I will find a way to speak up even if its by writing and Blogging.

That’s just who I am. I certainly have no regrets of being Me! I am an Unapologetic and a Fierce Woman. And I’m proud to be that way. And I’m proud to share a bit of myself to whomever wants to follow me, read me, or get to know me and know a little more about me and what moves me. Besides God, friends and family moves me, people moves me. You move me! 🙂

(Prayer)

“Move me, my God, towards You.
Do not move me
the threads of this world, No!
Move me, bring me to You,
from the depth … “

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AS A FEMINIST I’M ADDICTED TO WRITING, TO SPEAK MY MIND, TO MAKE MONEY, TO GIVE IDEAS, TO DRINK WINE & TO LOVE MAKING. YET I HATE SEX!

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“Are dogs divided into hes and she is, or do they both share equally in hunting and in listening and in the other duties of dogs? or entrust the males the entire and exclusive care of the flocks, while we leave the females at home, under the idea that the bearing and suckling their puppies is labor enough for them to work? “_Plato {who came to the conclusion that it was a woman.}

As a friend of mine once said, as I get older I feel more talkative, opinionated, and bolder. I’m more in communion with both my inner and outer being, and especially as a person, as a woman and as a feminist. Yes, this statement will surprise my friends and people who know me. “I’m far from FEMINIST”, I tell myself, and everyone agreed with that even more.

I am a working mother of obligation, not choice. I am a craftsman, reader, homemaker, hostess dinner / party at home, a jealous wife, and a little dependent on others to feel validated. However, I am a talker, a pioneer of fashion, a fashionista, a former model, a liberal blogger, and a follower and supporter of women’s causes, why my children and others to follow their dreams, and do not accept social conformity . To break the standards, even if it’s hot, and know that women and men are equal and we should not pretend to be something less or something better.

I like soap operas and movies in black and white, where men are strong, passionate, and a male, and women are delicate, fanci, and so fragile and soft.These sope operas and movies built what I am now, as I noticed things that grow out of fashion and shaped by the visions of women being slapped if missbehaved, men are the heroes, the importants and head and men house.

All the while, I identified more with the “fattale femme” who would impose themselves, to talk loudly, and laugh out loud, drink and smoke like men, and take care of herself and her children without a man to give her money or bossy her around. These women were the first feminist women that I have seen or read about. But then added, Matta Hari , Annie Sprinkle , Kathy Keeton ,  La Malinche, Jenni Rivera, and many more. I feel that most of them had great roles in the culture of feminism, but they never stopped being feminine and caring. For that they will always be heroes and role models I would emulate regardless other’s peoples opinions and views.

AS A FEMINIST I’M ADDICTED TO WRITING, TO SPEAK MY MIND, TO MAKE MONEY, TO GIVE IDEAS, TO DRINK WINE & TO LOVE MAKING. YET I HATE SEX!

La Historia de El Cantaa; En Busca del Guije o Chichiricú Cubano

Yo nunca tuve miedo del Cantaa o de el Chichiricú (Guije) que se aparecia de noche en el charco de los Hernandez en la Cuchillas de Moca, un pueblo humilde que fue formado por campesinos y próceres muchos siglos atrás. Pero muchas tardes me presigna cuando iba al pozo con mi querida madrecita, Mame, que en el cielo en paz descanse, y a lo lejos escuchábamos ruidos de guijos o maracas. Ella me tomaba de la mano mientras en la otra llevaba un balde para recoger el agua.  Su balde tenia una soga en lugar de mango, por que este se le había roto. Ella lo despitaba en el suelo y me acercaba a su falda de flores, “viste hijita, por eso no se debe ir a buscar agua o banarse en los rios o charcos en el anochecer, ya que una vez te coje la noche casi siempre aparece un Cantaa o Guije y te pueden matar de un susto y hacerte travesuras. Recuerda, nunca busques al duende feo, travieso y malo ese, por que no sabes lo que te espera.” “No, Mame, jamas haría eso” yo le respondía, “Si algun dia me encuentro un Chichiricú o escucho sus maracas y ruidos de guiros o guijos de cerca, le caigo a pedradas, a pedradas no, pe~nones digo! Y luego me lanzo a correr. Patitas pa’que las quiero y no hay alma perdida que me alcance.”

Mame me abrazaba, lanzando unas carcajadas divertidas y recojia su balde del suelo. Ambas tomadas de la mano hibamos por la cuesta abajo cantando en baja voz,

“MADRE OYEME
Madre óyeme, mi plegaria es un grito en la noche
Madre guíame en la noche de mi juventud

Madre sálvame, mil peligros acechan mi vida
Madre lléname, de esperanza, de amor y de fe.

Madre guíame, en las sombras no encuentro el camino
Madre llévame, que a tu lado feliz estaré…

Madre una flor, una flor con espinas que es bella
Madre una amor, un amor que ha empezado a nacer

Madre sonreír, sonreír aunque llore en el alma
Madre construir, caminar aunque vuelva a caer.
Madre solo soy el anhelo y la carne que lucha
Madre tuyo soy, en tus manos me vengo a poner

Madre óyeme, mi plegaria es un grito en la noche
Madre guíame en la noche de mi juventud…

Sobre los Güijes:

“Sobre los Güijes hay muchas leyendas. Se habla de un negrito cabezón, feo, con una gran boca, ojos saltones y el pelo enmarañado. El Guije supuestame es un duende protector de las plantas y animales del monte, que impone severos castigos a quienes maltratan la naturaleza. Cuenta la leyenda Cubana que que pueden devororar personas y animales, o los matan de un susto. Se dice que ellos andan desnudos y se esconden en los montes y rios y muchos campesinos aseguran con sus propios ojos, les llaman haberlos vistos que solamente de noche salen los Güijes a asustar al caminante. Se dice que son muy traviesos, frescos, y enamoraos.” “si andan cerca de un río de noche y el aire se llena de burbujas y sienten un sonido como el chiquichiquichá de las maracas es que hay algún chichiricú que se prepara para su próxima travesura.”

Yo crei haber visto uno entre los matojos en mi nines, pero solamente sali corriendo y el Cantaa como mi mami le llamaba al Guije, no me pudo alcazar, gracias a la Virgencita y a mi nino Jesus que siempre cuido mis pasos vagabundos y aventureros. So si ven a un Guije de tarde o de noche no traten de enfrentarlo por que pueden ser muchos, mejor corran que esos diablillos duendes tienes sus manas y encantos que la majia del bosque y la luna llena les da. Suerte en sus andadas, caminatas, y paseos nocturnos.

Chichiricúuuuuu!….Se oyo a lo lejos Pshhhhhh Chichiricúuuuuu….

El Guije!, El Guije pelú! Corran!….

FIN

Cuento corto por Evelyn Rodriguez

DON’T LET THE BLUES GET TO YOU. SEEK HELP!!!

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“After a significant loss, you may experience all kinds of difficult and surprising emotions, such as shock, anger, and guilt. Sometimes it may feel like the sadness will never let up.

While these emotions can feel very painful, accepting them as part of the grieving process and allowing yourself to feel what you feel is necessary for healing.”

 

Reference Site:

http://www.helpguide.org/topics/grief.htm

When an Angel Touched Me by Evelyn Rodriguez

Short novel by Evelyn Rodriguez
Script Frenzy project.
© Copyright 2014 Evelyn Rodriguez.

Scene I-

(It was pretty dark and raining. A girl seating on the steps of a Spanish colonial church was trying to avoid getting soaked and tried to kept herself warm. Not an easy task for a small runaway girl, who was now homeless. Her mother was very poor and her step father used to beat and abused them. She kept asking her mother to leave him, but she wouldn’t. So Celeste took her only treasure, her small rag doll and left her home one early morning. She kept walking the unpaved streets of her country side town until once it got dark she reached the outskirts of a nearby city named Wonder City. An urban legend told of a bridge with a troll and human angels roaming the streets of Wonder City in form of Vigilantes. She was not afraid, but curious of all of it. Her vivid imagination told her that could be true. And that she would be safer dealing with a gang of Believers as they were called than dealing with her step father and her mother.

(She is dressed in rags, barefooted and holding her torn doll in her arms.

The light it’s deeming but focusing on the girl of undefined age. Her name is Celeste. She is walking on the sidewalk with her head down, long strings of greasy curled dark hairs falling over her face and covering the right side, almost hiding both of her eyes.)

Celestia “Rough sad day!”, she is telling her doll, “My hands are frozen. I wish we could have a warm bed to sleep in or at least have a fire to sit in front of in this frozen night. Oh Lucy, as she called her rag companion, if only I could have my parents by my side. My mom and my real dad. If only we can all be happily together.”

She sights and holds her doll stronger and says to her. “You see tears running down from my face, like peaceful streams, I can’t contain. Tear of pain.” Suddenly her face and eyes are covered in tears as she looks at the stars and sights again.

Celeste-“But don’t worry Lucy! I know father is watching us from his star. And probably mommy will come for me and find us soon! We just have to be brave and spend another night here, near the troll’s bridge, but we will be fine. I feel it. Lucy- “Don’t cry my little girl!” (Girl and doll hugs each other as a soft lullaby plays in the background. And there there’s a foreground image of Celeste, as a baby, her dad and her mother all hugging each other and staring lovingly down to a now young Celeste.

Her mother used to sing to her lullabies whenever Celeste was afraid. But she stopped to avoid her new husband’s anger fits. He would yell, or call her names each time he heard them singing. He hated the sound of their voices. He hated everything. To Celeste he was an evil one eye ogre. Coincidentally he had lost one eye during a war he once had to go to.

(Closing her eyes little Celeste starts drifting asleep and the lights shuts off.)

Scene II-

 

(Streak of lights coming down from a blinking star illuminates her face as it gets brighter and brighter.)

Celeste: (Yawning) “Papa, is it daylight yet?,” Suddenly she exclaims, “Oh. Sorry!.”

She sees a beautiful nice woman standing in front of her

Nice Lady- “Don’t be afraid my little girl! I’m a Faerie and I was sent to you to tell you that no matter how lonely and hungry you are now, we would be watching you and no harm will come to you. Your mother loves you. You know? And she wanted me to tell you that. Here is a small present from us!

(Out of nowhere the lady gets a sturdy but beautiful blanket and gently places over Celeste’s shoulders)

(Celeste: Rubbing her eyes in disbelieve and stretching her little arms.) Celeste- “Pretty nice lady! Please don’t go! Take me to my mother, please, pretty lady! I’m so sorry! I am scared and afraid. I’m hungry too. I just want to go back home. I haven’t eaten a warm meal in months now.”

Crying, she puts her head down over her knees and holding the blanket closer to her. (Celeste keeps crying and mumbling until she falls asleep again. The full moon glows like a bright bluish light over the church walls, behind Celeste, blinding Celeste awake.)

Celeste- “What is this?

She stands up and jump and grabbing a small wooden torch near her she touches the walls, passing them trough with the empty hand like if she were a ghost. She sees trough it. There she observes a large room filled with deliciously prepared foods and morsels, and a Christmas three with colorful lights.

Under the tree she sees a figurine of the pretty nice lady she had seen before. It’s the Virgin Mary. The nice lady is holding a small child in her arms while she is greeted by few pastors, animals of all sorts, and three rich kings. A handsome bearded man, who looks like her own dad is standing near the lady. And all of them waive at her almost like welcoming her to their gathering.

Up in heaven a bright star is shinning in all of it splendor, so bright like diamonds. She smiles happily as she tries to touch them. The light from the star illuminates the whole room, but she can‘t touch them or see them anymore. Everything becomes pitch black and foggy.

Celeste- “Something is burning. I can see the smoke, and smell the fire near by. To close, that my cheeks feels warm, my forehead is sweaty, the palms of my hands too. Lucy!. Lucy, where are you?

(Celeste, feeling warm, suffocated, confused, and exhausted, closes her eyes drifting away and falls asleep again.

 

Scene III-

(Bells are ringing on the Church. It’s 6:00 AM.) The loud church bells wakes up Celeste, as passerby stare indifferently at her. To them she is nothing, insignificant, zero. Some looks at her with petty, others stare with disdain, but non with love, or compassion, like a true Christian should. They are all going into the church. Only few children look back at her.

She rubs her eyes, passes a hand through her to long mane and gets up on her feet. She then looks around and see a dog playing with her doll in his mouth. She screams at him and picks up her doll now lying on her feet, and with her dirty doll covered up in slobbered she walks alone, down a red brick street.

People can hear her sobbing as she rubs her eyes and tummy but no one offers her the slightest bit of food, not even a piece of bread.

—- (The light deems down as her small image turns into a shadowed light and then disappears like a shooting star in the distance.)

Meanwhile inside the church a chorus of small angels and cherubin sing along the humans who saw the sad and hungry little girl and did nothing for them. Most of them leave their podiums to eat bread and wine, Jesus body and blood. No one was even thinking of the hungry girl they saw outside. 

To Be Continued…

 

Read on and visit me again for more from “When the Angel Touched Me.” Evie