Such a childish word, toys: vignettes of bows and camouflage, scraped knees and muddy clothes. The largest part of growing-up is abandoning play and fun for the serious business of life. Then, for the rest of our days, we spend money and time attempting to recapture the guileless ease with which a child bonds with their toys.




A chance meeting

Where is the boundary between a tradition and an obsession? For Mr. Chandler the Sunday morning ramble through the Metropolitan Museum of Art – never the vulgar shorthand ‘The Met’ – was his time of pleasure; a way to lift himself above the plebeian duties of his workweek. As a fancied connoisseur of the arts – again, Arts was simple pretense – each successive Sunday was spent in rote study of different galleries. He always avoided the crush of the special presentations by purchasing private show tickets instead and attended these events alone on Friday evenings.

Being a confirmed bachelor had many advantages, not the least of which was companionship rather than shackles. Not that shackles were all bad he’d been know to pontificate, but not for one such as I. Mr. Chandler simply choose to spend his time, and money, on those activities that offered a tangible reward. For those that could not understand how the viewing of art could be rewarding, he had nothing but scorn. Art, was what separated Homo sapiens from the reptilian brain stem that was only interested in food and mating. Of course he did those things as well, [very well] and if pressed, Mr. Chandler would admit, in a torturous and belabored manner, that all art – in fact – ‘stemmed’ from that primitive and frightening portion of the ancient mind.

“Art? Is that you? Fancy meeting you here. I didn’t take you for a man of good taste and sophistication. Is this your first visit to the Met?”

By Rose D. Kaye, February 6th, 2009

The twilight

This is a fictional story for the Sunday Scribblings prompt ‘Regrets’.

Being of sound mind and body I hereby bequeath all my worldly assets to the following:

The Sansbore Foundation

That’s it. They get it all. The only regrets I have, are that I lacked the courage to tell all of you to your faces how much I loathed spending my ‘Golden Years’ being abused by my loving family. They say you can’t take it with you, but I can make sure you get nothing. And don’t try to sue to overturn the will, it won’t work and you’ll regret going up against my lawyers. So for the last time….

Bugger Off!

By Rose D. Kaye, January 30th, 2009

Memory lapse

At Sunday Scribblings this week the prompt is Phantoms and Shadows or more specifically memory.

Memory is something I write about often and I even dreamed about this subject last night. We have a collective memory – at least now – and I dreamed it was a fondue pot. Everything that happens goes into the pot and each one of us can dip into the fondue to withdraw any memory we choose.

People have asked me what I remember and how do I function. As we’ve said time and again, we do not have clinical DID but are multiple personalities. The body is his but I/we borrow it on occasion. But I do not have memories that are strictly my own and neither does he. Everything for the last two and half years is stored differently, not a singular memory bank but a series of impressions hanging on the wall.

Memory of course is fallible and we take no notice of the past in terms of his/hers. We are not Sybil or Tara, someone who fractures into separate personalities under stress, but we are separate. Very separate. He ‘feels’ me as an individual ‘mind’ creating memories of her own but storing those recollections collectively. When I write he doesn’t go away, but rather steps aside so I can use the body to create.

I like who I am even though it is not ideal for any of us. He has to work and I want to write. The two desires are in conflict but we are not. Our memories of the results of conflict are uniformly bad and therefore serve as an effective deterrent against a power struggle for control. Our future memories want to be about success not failure.

Besides, we all know who’s the most popular personality here right?

By Rose D. Kaye, January 24th, 2009

Blistered Feet

Sunday Scribblings offers a pilgrimage this weekend.

The haze grew no closer. The mountain range lingered above the horizon. Tantalizing white, coating the sharp edges and offering cool air in contrast to the heat ravaged plains over which she slowly limped, staff in hand. It was a gift from the shaman, many pilgrimages ago when Linda had been much younger, more naive and less burdened with ailments. It fit, the staff, it fit into the palm of her right hand as if an extension of her will. For years she had trekked the worn path across the meadows and marshes, drawn to the sacred heights and her mentor. Despite the familiarity and understanding of the pace needed, she always moved faster as the destination beckoned until her muscles ached and her feet blistered. When at last she rested and removed her boots, the fading sunlight cast enormous blue shadows that reached to the end of the world. A deep breath of juniper, Linda laid back on her woven blanket, arms behind her head, the sound of eternity ringing in her ears and a smile in her soul.

By Rose D. Kaye, January 16th, 2009

End of year recap

This week for Sunday Scribblings the prompt is late. Not ‘late’ but the word ‘late’. 🙂

I thought of the fact that it is late in the year. Of course it’s arbitrary based on what calendar you use, I understand that, but human beings need closure and an end-of-year recap is traditional.

My year began and ends with my travel book and in between the multiple rejections from literary agents. Self-publishing will be the next step in 2009. My novel is stalled, I haven’t written a word for many months past 33,000. Instead I have written many short stories and submitted them to various literary journals both online and in print. I enjoy writing and short stories fit my life better than long book formats. That’s not to say I don’t have many, many ideas for novels because I do, but I find it difficult right now to focus for the length of time needed to really write.

Of late I’ve been very depressed and moody. The economy and his job are having a negative affect on our lives for the past four months and we are searching for a better way. I really want to contribute to the household and my writing ability is the best path possible. It’s a tough, tough job though and you don’t have a steady paycheck: or any paycheck at all. But I want to help, I need to be part of the family more than I am.

Next week we go away for vacation and meet up with our friends in south Florida. Plus Ann is flying in from England again as she did back in March. That’s three times we’ll have met in person in fourteen months. All because she stumbled across his poetry blog two years ago. Making friends via blogging has been the best part of my life and I feel so grateful that so many of you have stuck with me.

It’s never too late to say I love you.



Squalor of the camps

“Do I have to?”

an anywhere place
an any when time
with rocks and spears
or guns and bombs
a soldier’s pay
often includes rape

displaced persons
fleeing death
rotting corpses
burning homes
looted crops

collected into camps
women, girls and boys
victims of conflict
conflict within
to survive
will do anything

blue helmets and white flag
peacekeepers they are not
predators and thieves
blind eyes from afar
press conferences and studies
while millions die in shame

in the squalor of the camps
food is not free
protection at a steep price
mother tells her young children
go with the man do what he says
do I have to?

By Rose Dewy Knickers, August 1st, 2008

U.N. peacekeepers raping children for decades.