Failure and Success

Failure is not falling down, but refusing to get up.

An old Chinese saying.

The Birth and Death of Dear D.D.

I began keeping a journal in December of 1994 at the age of twelve. At some point in the first year of the faithful chronicling of my legend, I read the Diary of Anne Frank. I found myself suddenly bored with beginning each of my journal entries with the oh-so-usual Dear Diary, but I couldn't for the life of me find a "pet name" that I thought really striking. In October of 1995, I finally settled on D.D., which stands for Dear Diary.

10/24/95
Dear D.D.

I feel so miserable right now. My heart aches so much for me to confess my true feelings. The torture my mind and heart (are) experiencing is almost unbearable. For so many weeks there have been few times I have cried, but I think the days of my crying every night are coming back. I am so desperate for what I want to be given to me. Many a time I have (en)visioned the things that I want. Yet every day is another disappointment.

Bye!

And so, she was born, this inanimate object which over the years became akin to a living entity. A cherished friend who, when she died, was mourned.

For years, the entries centered themselves around one theme: the turmoil caused by love, or rather the lack thereof. I call what I wrote to Dear D.D. my legend, but even then, when I began penning my first heartfelt entries to this nonexistent friend, I knew that was not the case. Knew that what I would be chronicling in the pages of my small, hard-won diary to be nothing significant to future generations, nothing notable enough to receive an acclaim that would grant me the kind of immortality that I sought, that I still seek.

in each tender bud,
i see the prospective for greatness
that lies with the realization of our goals
and i weep for the endless universe of possibilities
that was secured us by those willing
to trade blessed life for equality and freedom.
now, we can be as the empires and the conquerors,
the poets and the playwrights,
the sculptors and the painters,
the inventors and the explorers,
we can be as ill-forgotten as they,
a mighty root in our tree of known kindred
and not merely a withering branch.

~ The Immortality of Intimates Reconciled, Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry March 19, 2008

Every so often, I read through the different incarnations which D.D. took, searching for a depth to the child that I was. I wouldn't call the girl I no longer am a vain creature, I have never believed myself beautiful (pretty, more like), but I was certainly shallow, certainly self-involved. I took notice of nothing other than the misery I felt for being denied my heart's one desire.

Love ceased to be an obsession in 2002 with the death of my father, and because of that D.D. died shortly after. In the years following her death, I have attempted to revive her, each attempt marked by the purchase of a journal. Done, perhaps, in the hope that whatever new skin I present her will entice her to stay. But, it seems that I am no necromancer, no alchemist to force such notion as life into sheaves of paper. Whatever magic it is that fashioned her, no longer exists.

Wrath of the Red Bird

I can't remember the exact age that I took an interest in writing. I do remember my first self-published work though. It was entitled "Wrath of the Red Bird" and must have totaled no more than 4 loose leaf sheets of stapled-together paper. I was nine.

The short-short story reflected a concept I was nearly obsessed with at that age. I was, and still am, a comic book fan. Terrible of me not to remember the name I gave my main character, a twenty-something woman who was known for her kind heart. I believe the story was thrown out a number of years ago, a victim of one of my late father's cleaning rages. Or, it's somewhere on this continent, in a room I haven't ventured into since a year before my father's death. If not there, then perhaps I left it in Kenya, buried in a box full of memories left in the safe care of my elderly grandmother.

Let's, for the sake easy reference, call the main character of my first short-short story, Petra. As stated, Petra was a woman known for her kind heart. One day, while walking down a suburban street, she looks up to find that a red bird is circling above her. As she watches the bird lays an egg while still in flight and the egg drops to the ground just before her. It doesn't break. She approaches it, fascinated, and picks it up. The egg feels strange and is unlike any other egg Petra has beheld. In her hand, it breaks open and its contents spill out. Amazingly, the yoke of the egg begins to seep into her and she faints.

She wakes to find herself imbued with power, she can fly, she is super strong, she is everything that she has ever wanted to be. But, she is now faced with a struggle. An internal one. Darkness. The darkness that has always lain quietly in her soul begins to rage inside her. It eventually consumes her and instead of hero, she is now villain.

I was nine so forgive the easy solution that I came up with to return her to good. In one of her lucid moments of normalcy and goodness, she turns to a neighbor for help. A young man who, of course, becomes the romantic interest. Together they discover that in order to return her to good, they need only take her to that which no matter how evil she had become she could not destroy. She could not injure children, no matter how hard she tried. She could not injure animals (cute little bunnies especially), no matter how hard she tried. So again and again he takes her to places where that which restores her is found abundantly (orphanages, pet stores, etc.). The yoke finally loses its hold over her and drains away.

It took me years to understand the reason why I wrote the story. I wanted to be like Petra. I wanted to be able to break out of the mold I'd been cast in. I wanted to be powerful. For so many reasons, I wanted to be powerful. But, how oddly mature of me, at nine, to realize the darkness that lay within. How oddly prophetic that my own restoration was borne unto me by my children.

Sixpence for Sacrifice

"Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye..." ~ Nursery Rhyme

sing a song of salvation, an ode to the rightful guide,
six and twenty years it took the meadowlark to confide.
a tale of discovery to impart the understanding,
has the indigent state been so long in commanding?
in my land, sorrow rains down as thick as honey,
while wishes stream upward, imploring for days sunny,
but shadows cast against the light in the stance of foes,
the meadowlark bills sixpence a sacrifice, dues for the repose.

Oracle

the tender weightless misty threads
wisped, spiraled up and met with the stately figure
they kissed and caressed tender curves,
hugged as they rubbed and rose,
skidded upon a heaving curve,
hit upon the parabolic obstacle and dispersed

a hiss upon the glowing brands and new misty weightless rose
they knew their enchantment, they knew their instrumentality
snatched, they jetted into a dance with garments,
a fanning wing tugged at them until they entered the twin cave
and a dark bony clawed hand intruded upon the flawless milky skin

hoarse cackles mixed with velvet whispers
and drool stained the silk and satin
pale skin glowed and the curves convulsed
narcotic evanescence hovered expectant-
a squeal arose from within as coarse and sharp violated supple soft

eyes, unblemished white, glowing
hankered at her and a stained grin arose from the creature
as it held the chain that bound a celestial
the damned one rattled the fetters as he hobbled forward
and yanked the immaculate into a dirty embrace

her wings fluttered - resistant, as cracked lips
opened to reveal jagged rotting teeth
and went for the kiss of revelation
white iridescence hid the unimaginable coupling
and in a shriek the demon sucked all glory from the shackled star

he smiled as he searched the stolen nimbus for the sight
and within he saw his master in all his darkness
as he hovered over the earth, having cast the mistress of light asunder
his dark wings fluttered to cover the light
and flooded the world in eternal shadow

Inspired by Frank Miller's 300

The Price we Pay

we boast of a cradle of life
the genesis of which we have put a price on
we prize not the vanishing green
and take lightly the price we paid for it

were we not as one,
as we reclaimed that which had been snatched from us,
the legacy that our forefathers left us,
and charged us to nurture?

yet now we rise against each other
plunder the irreplaceable from nature
use what is left as weapons
to further greed for power

soon the ground shall burn
uncovered, unrained
stained with sweat and blood
despair and regret

do we not all sweat salt and bleed red?
do we not all love and mourn for our loss?
do we not all hunger and thirst?
what then is our distinction?

let then our dream be fulfilled
let harmony reign
let us heal our land and lands
and never forget we are all children of the Most High.

Sharps and Flats

While angry longing sweeps gustily through the channels that make of my soul a darkened maze, I listen to songs that have become like unto classics. And the thoughts and feelings that they were once soundtrack to, flood the angry longing, turning the world, this place where the meadowlark sleeps, into something more.

The light becomes softer, gentle. The scrape of chairs and the ringing tones of cellphones, and the tenor and bass, alto and soprano of un-silent voices fade into the bearable facsimile of a drone.

Oh, truly, in this moment, with Oasis's Wonderwall playing its sharps and flats, this path I've embarked upon once more is too poignant for angry longing to hold much sway.