Saturday, September 24, 2011

The Long Journey Back...

I would like to thank Lucid Dreamer for inspiring me to write again. Her stories are poignant and rich, filled with human emotion. She is one of the better short story writers that I know (and to think that she's just getting started!).

I hope I still have what it's been 4 years and counting since I last wrote. I guarantee one thing, if it's still there,,,I'll find it!

Saturday, April 07, 2007

This present disillusion

Once upon a time, a father sent his daughter and son to the market to sell the family donkey. This was the most important task that the two children had been assigned to this point in their lives and each of them wanted desperately to make their father proud. He gave them each a map and separate directions to the market so that if one lost his map or forgot, the other would be able to remember.

So the two set out on their journey, aware that the road was long but comfortable and assured in the knowledge that they had each other. On and on they went past streams, over hills and through forests with one single mission in mind. They would often fantasize about their father’s happiness when they’d return and what a large feast their mother would prepare for them.

One day they came upon a stream which crossed their path. The boy proposed that since there was no need for both of them to get wet, he would carry his sister across the stream, and the donkey would follow. She thought it the most selfless offer she had ever heard and mused about how wonderful her brother was. So she climbed on his back and he, with the ass in tow, proceeded to ferry his sister over the bubbling brook.

The girl, though much lighter than her brother, made for a difficult load. He had never carried anything this heavy and progress across the stream was slow and haggard. Finally he got to the other side and on setting his sister down, collapsed and fell on his back on the muddy bank revealing the soles of his feet which were bruised and had several small bleeding cuts. The girl quickly tore off the sleeves of her shirt and wrapped them around her brothers feet then using the red ribbon she had got for her birthday bound the cloth.

Several days had passed and the shadows appeared to get longer and the wind a little chillier and the grass along the path was turning a deeper yellow with each passing day. The bread that they had carried for sustenance was starting to get stale and the grape wine they had carried for thirst was starting to turn bitter. Their long, animated conversations began to shorten and ultimately changed into curt, abrupt phrases from sterile voices and expressionless mouths.

After a week and a day virtually all conversation had ceased and each regarded the other with a kind of hostile contempt. All the boy could feel was the searing pain that shot up his leg with each step he took. Every time he would think the pain had reached its max, the next step he took would quickly change his mind. The girl could hardly move her arms which were now swollen from scratches and plum red from mosquito bites. The itch she felt was almost maddening in intensity and it was all she could do to not scream in frustration.

A few days later, they came upon a fork in the road which split into three different paths. At this point each of the children took out their maps for consultation. It’s the narrowest path the girl announced triumphantly. No, it’s the path on the far left the boy answered resolutely. They proceeded to argue for a while each growing more confident of the position they had taken, and growing angrier with each uttered word.

What an ungrateful little kimbele, the boy thought. After I injured myself carrying her across the stream this is how she treats me!

What an ungrateful little mdomo, the girl thought. After I ripped my shirt to bandage his wounded feet this is how he repays me!

Left, the boy insisted.

Narrowest, the girl persisted.

Eventually the girl stormed off taking the path on the far right and the boy stormed off, taking the path that was widest. After a day of walking along their chosen paths, each started to doubt the decision each had made and decided to head back to the fork in the path. The girl reached the fork after another day to find the boy crying standing next to the dead donkey. They had both stormed off in anger and forgotten the donkey which, already exhausted, had died of thirst.

They sadly made their way home, without donkey or money. When they got to their father, they each narrated how the other had refused to follow the directions and map they each had been given. Each blaming the other for being a kichwa ngumu and a mjuaji.

"Alas!" Their father said. "The path on the far left is also the narrowest path. If you only had taken the time to hear each other out and understand what the other was trying to say. Your pride and arrogance killed the donkey!"

Monday, September 18, 2006

The Mountain and the molehills

So is this it. That wasn't a question. Was it? While dreaming of mountains I will fail to see all the molehills that dot my path. I have a choice to make. The goal is clear. The mission has been briefed. The choices understood. I can lower my gaze from the sky and concentrate on my path or I can hold onto my fantasies and blindly stumble along the way in the hope that I'll somehow make it through unscathed. The sands are almost all gone. I have to choose before the rain comes and the choice is made for! There's the mountain, beautiful, majestic and proud. Then there's the path of molehills, very clear, very present and real. The wind is blowing now, it has been for a while, to try and force my hand. It is known that you cannot resist the wind, not for long anyway. Her campaign is unrelenting, her goal but one, her destiny forecast. She whispers caring words in your ears so you may not fight her, eventually she will have her way. she always does. listen to her, I know she loves me but she doesn't know me. If she knew me at all she would leave me to my foolish ambitions. She would leave me to wallow in this murky cesspool of indecision and blow on her merry way. But she doesn't, She is real. The path is real. The molehills are real. The mountain is but a mirage and I am but a shadow. Yet the sun does not shine. Why isn't anything simple anymore. I remember yesterday when I was flesh and blood. The pleasure of breath, the sweetness of every heartbeat. For a moment I picture my tombstone, gray, weathered and chipped. The words have darkened and I can no longer make them out. What will I do, will I truly be reborn? There's no way I can let my dream go. There's no way I can hold onto it. Yes there is but it's a painful, sacrificing, martyr choice. And the wind will not understand. Yes they are blowing from all directions now. Can I just live? Ha! If it was only that easy. This is my Ka. This is my An-tet. This is my path and I have to walk it. Yet I know he's watching.

Monday, May 15, 2006

LUCID DREAMS ctd......

Now that I'm starting to feel like my old self again, it's about time I wrap up this story - I hope ya'll haven't given up on me. Just in case you forgot the storyline ....

Lucid dreams ......part 1

Lucid dreams ......part 2

Lucid dreams ......part 3

the last part should be up in a little while ... scared? you should be!

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Muddy waters

Muddy waters beneath a silver spring. The blue moon watching over a lonely star. The trees dancing their slow sway (in their way) as the wind whistles another sad love song. These are the realms of my heart. A wolf howls distances away, I know he’s there. But I have cried wolf before, many times before. The owl gazing at me in her all knowing way lets out a sad understanding hoot. I try to smile but my lips don’t remember how. It’s been like this for a minute and a year. My weakened spirit fighting a false war that I’m bound to inevitably lose. Why can’t it be that I win the war before the battle? Could it be that I’m my own enemy thus the most stunning victory would equal the most crushing defeat? If this was so then I should never dare to fight, but still I do! Why is everything both black and white? A tear wells up in my eye but it doesn’t fall. I blink it away (but it’s here to stay). It’s been this way for a minute and a year. This present darkness cast over everything. Muddy waters beneath a silver spring .

…..but still the sun will rise at dawn.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Heart or Duty

I look around this burning house
ash and fire
the grey smoke rising higher
Yet the walls are so cold

I am bound by oath to this place
paper and color
the places I signed my honor
Yet I cannot stay

I have found a new solace
pillow and bed
gentle bosom to rest my head
Yet it will not let me

I have a choice to make
heart or duty
to follow task or beauty
Yet beauty’s going away

Monday, January 02, 2006

Déjà Vu (not really)

There’s that Déjà Vu feeling again! Wasn’t I just here a few (days?? Weeks?? Months??!!) ago? I look around the place and I know for certain I’ve been here before. There’s a note lying on the floor, I pick it up.... I will go to the gym more.... Hmmm, where have I heard those words before?! What’s that? There’s something written on the right corner, I look more closely....January 1st 2005...I recognize that hand writing but can’t quite place it. What is this? The twilight zone? It must be because everything seems so strange. There’s something on the table…’s a picture! Maybe that’ll answer some of my questions. I pick it up, it’s dusty and faded like a distant memory yet the colors are still bright and alive. The paper feels strangely warm as I gently brush the dust off it’s surface. There’s a face on it. It’s a young boy/man with a stoic face, kind eyes and bright smile that I feel strangely drawn to. Who is this boy/man? I turn the picture over...good luck bro, keep it real...and suddenly I feel great sadness. Is this me? I look around the room and spot the mirror on the wall. The face looking back at me is not the same in the picture but there’s some familiarity. I must know who this boy/man is. I tuck the picture in my left breast pocket (right above my heart) in case the memory comes back to me. There’s a vase on the table with dry, wilted flowers in it. I move closer and realize that all the flowers have turned brown from age (they were once half a dozen yellow roses, some pink posies and a few red carnations). There’s a card stuck in between the stems...Happy Valentines Mom... I open it ...I love you, Feb 14th 2002...and notice a tear drop stain on it. Does that date mean that’s the last time this person got a valentine’s wish? I hope not because that would really be sad. There’s a handmade titanium fountain pen with a gold nib and some sort or engraving on it next to the vase. I pick it up...Happy Birthday Dad, November__ ...and realize the engraving wasn’t finished. What kind of person doesn’t know his/her father’s birthday? I would never be so cut off from the people I love. If this was me I would stay close to all the people important to me, this is inexcusable! I want to leave this place, it’s full of cold memories and sadness. I notice the bottle of Burberry Brit on the night stand. What a coincidence, that’s the same (make that only) cologne I use. Hmmm, I have a shirt just like the one lying on the bed. Actually I have that same bed! What is this some kind of joke? What’s today April fools? I look down at my wrist to check the date but my watch is missing. WAIT! There’s my watch lying right next to the bottle of cologne! That's when I notice the sign over the bed, "SANDMAN"!