Failures

How many little failures in a day?

In a rush to fill a cup, haste makes waste and the cup spills and now the crying child has to wait for the spill to be cleaned and a new filling of the cup before being soothed with her sweet orange drink.

Bumping into things, dropping things, being clumbsy. And non of those failures of action and intention matter. Until one does.

Its not about getting punched and loosing your balance and falling with your bookbag, or the sound and feeling of your sick sister's Cheering Trophy snapping in your bag, or that you didn't walk away like your sister would have wanted you to when Eric Martin and Tony Leery, called you fat and your sister ugly. Or the tearing of your pants at the knee, or the knee scrapping and bleeding.  And it happening infront of your peers waiting for the late bus.

Its about locking eyes with Paige Harper, and seeing the look of pity there. And the burning tightness and heat rushing to your face. Because your already crying.

Its the piles of failures infront of the one good thing you hoped for all being crushed at once.
Its hearing Paige yell at Eric and stand over you and Punch him back.

Its the teachers taking Paige and Eric and Tony in for suspention and letting you go even though you threw the first ineefective punch. and its walking home bacause you just can't sit on that buss after this. And then it rains. 

Introducing My Muses

Today is a special day as I am giving recognition to Claris for the first time.  Claris is a part of me, she is the part that makes things perfect.  I don’t just make cookies, Claris drives me to change the recipes and understand why they get flat, chewy, puffy, burned, doughy, moist, dry, flakey, and the things I do to peanut butter cookies that have them stain your fingers and melt in your mouth, lacks a word, but I can do it because of Claris.

Claris helps me when I look at a project, to find the most efficient method and she’s always looking over my work looking for ways to improve.  And Claris loves projects but there is a little bit of something pleasurable when Claris finally approves, there is this little spark of godhood inside me grinning.

Infact she’s annoyed with me now because I didn’t check to spell her name.  Its Clair-ees, and she’s afraid you are reading her name as Clair-iss.  Infact you need to watch Silence of the Lambs to hear Anthony hopkins say the name, because thats how I hear her name in my mind whenever I type it.   And the thing is I don’t know if I’m the cannibal or if Claris is.

I have not treated Claris very well for how much she serves me.  I have ignored her resented her and outright hated her.  Claris and I have been at war since my college years and sadly thats a LONG time.  The thing is today I realized that the war is my fault.  Claris is a part of me or if she’s just a type of Muse she is trying to improve me, to make me perfect.  Claris loves me and she wants everyone to love me.  She believes if I am perfect that the world will love me.  She fights with me because she is so very very much in love with me she doesn’t want me to fail at anything, she doesn’t want me to be laughed at or rejected.

I already have a Muse.  The one I love is called Imogena.  I've known her since I was 4.  She’s had different names, but Imogena is the latest and the longest, and she loves me just as much as Claris but Imogena is much more fun.  Imogena’s favorite words are “what if”  and she’s been seeding stories in my head everyday since we met.  Imogena knows the language of cats, birds, babies and people strolling through malls.  She’s a people watcher.  In fact on the drive back to the house after she suggest that we name Claris, Clair-ees, I turned down a road don’t usually turn down and the block was one house long before it was cut off by an alley road.  Imogena smiled at me and said “That house is an island.  What if there is some magic in living in an island house, there must be fairies in there.”

And now my head is buzzing with ideas about a house that is an island amid the river roads.  

and then Claris chimes in.  she can’t help herself, she tells me that the names of the roads around the house should be river names, and I should look up good river names, and that because the roads are river names the house is a natural sanctuary because vampires can't cross the roads and I can’t help but smile at that.

Claris will sink in deeper if I let her and then she’ll begin to tear at my words.  My writing isn’t good enough.  It isn’t efficient, and it isn’t perfect and then I either stop writing and find something to distract myself from my imperfection or I turn on myself reminding myself how imperfect I am and why would I think I can write to begin with and I STOP WRITING.

And thats not what Claris wants.  It’s not what I want.  Claris is not the black rot inside me, she’s not the abuse and neglect of my childhood.  Claris is a muse just like Imogena, she may not be a fun one but Imogena doesn’t bake, and I make some really good cookies thanks to Claris.  

I needed to name Claris today.  I needed to fully understand what she does for me and what I do to myself so that when I begin to feel like I can’t write I can talk to Claris and remind her that she can help me improve the second draft.  I need to empower myself and love myself as much as my muses love me.  I must be lovable. I have two muses.

If I were to Write a Children's Book

Princess Poppy and the Lying Lyre who Lied

By Kathryn Miller

Once upon a time in a fairy kingdom lived a king and a queen who had many many daughters all named after flowers.  The youngest princess was named poppy.  Poppy had short red hair and as many freckles as the sky had stars.  She wore orange sundresses with green stockings and a simple yellow ribbon in her hair on the days she did not wear her princess crown.

Princess Poppy loved to skip.  She’d rather skip than walk.  Her elder sisters would say, “don’t do that inside” or “that’s not the way a princess behaves” but Poppy skipped around the palace anyway.

One day while Princess Poppy was skipping she  bumped into a table knocking over a figurine of a handsome young boy playing a Lyre that was given to her parents as a gift from one of the Fairy Queens.  

“Oh no.” said Princess Poppy looking down at the figurine.  His one arm was now broken and his instrument had fallen from his grip.  “What will I do?” She said sadly kneeling down by the figurine.  “King daddy and Queen Mummy will be ever so cross.”

The little Lyre lying on the ground began to strum itself and make sounds.  At first it made tiny music but then it made words.  The words were, “Walk away.  No one saw you do this.  I won’t tell anyone and no one will know.”

Princess Poppy frowned.  She was not bothered by the fact that the Lyre had spoken to her.  She lived in a Fairy Kingdom after all.  She wasn’t sure if she should take its advice.

“But If I just walk away then...Someone else will just find you.” She told the Lyre.

“Yes, and they won’t know what happened.  They will think the wind blew me over.  And King Daddy and Queen Mummy won’t be cross with you.”

Princess Poppy looked up and down the hallway.  There was no one around.  She could just walk away.  Thinking about it made her stomach feel achy though, like she had skipped too soon after drinking lots of milk.  

“I don’t know if I can do that.” She said looking down at the Lyre.  

“Its not like you’d be lying,” said the Lyre. “You won’t be saying anything at all.”

The Lyre made sense and though it made her uneasy  so Princess Poppy walked away.  That night at when all the Princess were present for dinner King Daddy and Queen Mummy walked over the the grand palace dinner table looking sad.  Princess Poppy felt her stomach feel funny again.

Then King Daddy placed the broken figure on the table and asked, “Does anyone have anything to say about this?”  Princess Poppy fidgeted in her chair.  The other princesses merely looked puzzled.

The little lyre began to play. First there were music and then four clear words. “Princess Poppy broke me.”

“Poppy?” King Daddy said with disappointment.

“But you said you wouldn’t tell.” Princess Poppy cried.

“I Lied.” said the Lyre.

Queen Mummy walked Princess Poppy to her room telling her she  was to eat her dinner alone and have no desert.

“But Mummy, the Lyre lied.”

“It did worse than that.  It made a liar out of you.” Queen Mummy told her gently.

“But I didn’t say anything.” Princess Poppy said sadly.  

“That can be the worst lie of all, dear Poppy.” Queen Mummy told her.  Princess Poppy nodded and vowed from that moment on to never lie nor listen to a Lying Lyre that Lies.

Myths Landing

I remember the last time I saw my mother.  She was brushing her hair and I was lying on a round couch still in my white cotton slip.  I was on my belly looking up at her, I swung my legs, kicking at nothing the way that young children do.  I was thinking how beautiful I was going to be one day when I was as big as my mother.  I was thinking that everyone said I looked just like her.  I was thinking about the way the brush moved smoothly through her chestnut brown hair, and how soft and shiny it looked.  Mother winked at me from the mirror.

“Someone should be asleep already.” she told me with gentle reproof.  She was glad I was still up.

“Why can’t I go to see the Godmother’s?” I asked her happy to watch her prepare herself.

“You will, one day.” she promised.  “And they are going to love you my dearest.”

She always called me that; Dearest.  I was her dearest.  The sky was blue, water was wet and I was her dearest.  

“Why do you have to go at night?” I asked her looking out of the tower window.  I see the moon in the sky.  We stayed in the top of the Tower then.  I could see well into the forests around the Towers of Myths Landing.  I thought I could see all the way to Briarwood on clear sunny days.  Everything was more foreboding at night.

“I don’t make the rules, but I must follow them.”  Mother said putting her jeweled brush down.  When she stood, a handmaiden patiently rose and began assembling the underskirts for the bejeweled gown that mother would be received by the godmothers in.  It took three handmaidens to fit the gown on mother properly, tying all the hidden ribbons, and securing buttons, hooks and seams.  I watched them work transfixed as they with mechanic grace transformed my beautiful mother into an even more beautiful fairy queen.  Flowers and a pearl net were weaved into her hair before a glittering Tiara was finally placed.  Before they secured the pink and gold, rose embroidered cape, she reached down and lifted me up into her arms as I suppressed a yawn.

“I can take her to the nursery” one of mother’s lady’s offered and mother laughed shaking her head no.

“This is one task I can do myself.” she said as she walked me back to my bed.

“You're more beautiful than paintings” I told my mother as she nestled me back into my now cool bed.

“I love you my little Elaine.  Never forget that.” she said kissing my forehead.  I remember that because it was not something she normally said, it was not something I’d ever forget.  The kiss didn't tingle but it didn't need fairy magic to burn its way into memory.  Sometimes love works better than magic.

Despite the growing dark, and the lateness of the hour, my mother stayed with me till I fell asleep.  That was the last time I saw her.

In the morning more handmaidens came in but I didn't know them and they ignored me as they began to back up my clothing and toys.  I asked them what was going on and I was answered by a girl standing in the doorway.  She was about twelve and her hair was black as ravens, and cut short to her neck.  She wore a black gown, but it was not a uniform like the handmaidens wore.  It was more like something mother would wear.  She reached her hand out to me.

“Come with me Elaine.  We’re going to be moving you downstairs today, won’t that be fun?”

“Where is my mother?” I asked the girl since she knew my name.  “I don’t want to move.  I want my mother.”  I was frightened and on the verge of a tantrum.  The girl with swift grace entered the room and took my hand, kneeling to be eye to eye with me.  “I’m Adele, your sister.  Your mother is with the angels now my dearest, but she wants you to come live with me.”  It was the my dearest that caught my attention and well, Adele has been blessed by all the godmother’s save Winter, that close to her I felt safe and my urge to cry subsided.  Adele even managed to pick me up.  I was not yet 3 and she was almost 13.  Her eyes were large and gentle and sad.

I didn't understand what Adele meant by mother living with the angels.  Surely she’d come back for me.  I was her dearest.  In the next few days I was moved down to the lower levels of the tower where I’d never been, and given a small room, a new nanny and many new tutors.  I had to wear black everyday because mother had died.  I sometimes fought and cried and screamed and broke things, but Mother never came.  My sister Adele almost always did and I would hit her for it and scream at her, but she would bare it and when I was calm enough she would hold me and kiss my forehead the way mother used to.

My sister Beatrice was three years younger than Adele, she was taller with golden brown hair and smaller meaner green eyes and she used to hit me back if I acted like that around her, if Adele wasn't watching.  The twins, Cynthia and Daphne were almost 6 and wanted to play with me.  Sometimes with them I could play and forget.  But every night I’d cry.

After a few weeks Daphne crawled in bed with me when I would cry.  She’d hold me and whisper things.  That's how I found out her mother was gone too.  And So was Beatrice’s and so was Adele’s.  And that's when I stopped crying for a while.

It would be a little over three more years before it would become clear, when Adele prepared us that we had a little sister named Fiona who was going to move down to our rooms with us.  I realized then that my dearest Adele was little mother to all of us, and wondered who moved Adele down here.  I was almost 6 years old and the night Fiona moved down to the princess floors I wept, but not for my mother this time.  I wept for Adele.

Sometimes I’ll read about how wonderful it is to be a fairy princess.  Our Mythlander Bards do keep the people goodly entertained with tales of our mysterious graces and delight.  It always makes me frown a bit.  The towers are amazing.  There are three levels of gardens to explore.  The South Tower is so wide that you can race ponies around the halls where they keep the princesses stables, which Beatrice and I do quite frequently.  Of course the purpose of the tower is to provide us with everything we would ever need without ever leaving the towers.  It is the most comfortable prison a princess could ask for, but that is the point.  No princess ever asks to be in a prison.

We are the treasures of Myths Landing, and need to be safely kept in the treasury.  And only worn for special occasions.  Its actually not so wonderful from this side of things when you can look out the window at all of Myths Landing but you can’t touch any of it.  I wonder if treasure sighs in the locked treasury dreaming of being worn and touched everyday.  I know I did.

The Tea Time Travesty

Aunt Kate and Aunt Delilah are arguing again.  Its a constant comfort that these otherwise wise, calm and civilized older women take opposing sides on all things that matter and yet remain so close.  I enjoy each luncheon I attend know that whatever topic crosses the table with be grappled with and carefully pulled apart with intellect and gentle retorts and sly taunts.  Not all black cats attend the luncheons and that is a shame for the rest of them.  I plan on getting old and I want to have as much class and humor and Aunts Kate and Delilah.

We meet every sunday.  Elwood’s Diner is a clustered with large families enjoying after church nourishment and allows us to gather hidden in a crowd.  Proper dress is required to sit at the table.  Being well groomed comes second nature and is essential for a black cat.   I rest back comfortably having arrived neither to early nor too late.  Amanda tails the waitress, the clumsy sound of her chair is easily absorbed by the crowds around us.  Nobody looks at her but nobody smiles.  Amanda is the youngest black cat and she is still learning the unspoken.  I like her, she has lots of energy and sharp instincts.  I feel confident in the wyld with her in my wake, but the Unspoken are as important as any charm or mystic in keeping the pride safe.

Amanda fusses with her hair nervously.  The topic of dogs have come up again.

“I don’t think we need to get involved, “ Says Aunt Delilah, “these things have a tendency to work themselves out.”

“There is no question about whether we should get involved, dear,” Aunt Kate says reaching for the sugar, “the question is who to send.  These things tend to get out of hand, and you can’t expect men to clean up their own messes.”

According to the unspoken Aunt Delilah is putting it to a vote those that sip their tea when she sips her’s will be in agreement.  Those of us who rest are hands away from our cups vote to get involved.  Amanda is now fiddling with saucer of hers.  “Can I get some coffee please?” she asks trying to get the waitress’ attention.  Her actions are unfortunately confusing things as we seem to be tie in the vote and I kick her under the table.  Her eyes bulge in surprise and her hands slip off her cup to rub her knee.  My tactic earns me a grin from Aunt Kate and a look from Aunt Delilah.  Both of which are unspoken currency.  The vote in the matter has been settled.  The cup sippers put down their cups.

“The dogs tend to be close minded and brutal so the one who goes needs to be tactful.” Aunt Kate says after consideration.

“Expendable you mean.” Aunt Delilah says with distaste.

“Oh Goodness no Dear, I wouldn't dream of asking you to go.” Aunt Kate says with a teasing grin.

“Thus lets not have you judge who among us has the most tact.?” Aunt Delilah says sweetly.

“Pepper should go.” suggests Amanda.  Clueless still to the chain of command.  She should have made her comment to one of the younger girls like herself to be over heard.  I expect her suggestion to be ignored.

“Agreed.” says Aunt Kate.

“Agreed.” Echoes Aunt Delilah.  All eyes are suddenly on me.  Both Aunts agreed on something.  Somewhere an angel just lost their wings.  I pick up my cup and drain it gracelessly.  

“excuse me ladies, apparently Amanda and I are late for an appointment.” I say standing.

“I have no appointments today.” Amanda says now but gets up as everyone glares at her.

“Of course, Pepper.  Do be careful.  You know how men can be.  I look forward to hearing about your appointment next week.” Aunt Delilah says warmly.

“Take care dear.  I know that luck will follow you.” Aunt Kate stands and gives me a kiss on the cheek.  More currency.  I grab Amanda’s arm and pull her out of the Diner.

Savath and Drake of Skald

I do not understand the Witch, my son. I know that story by heart and I do not understand the Witch. There is no power on this world in any time, in my now or your now, that I could understand giving up my child for.  But, you are reading this in your now, and so I have given you up haven't I?

The dragon of Skald is something I do understand.  I understand him very well.  Dragons were always much more than anyone could describe them, they were greatness; massive, hungry, powerful, murderous, terrifying, greatness.  And they cultivated their own lands, pastures were peopled to feed and serve the dragons, and those were the people of Skald.  But people are not cows or sheep and they will not serve well if their only bonds are terror.  The dragons knew this.  In Skald they introduced their human cattle to a concept; Savath.

Savath is a dragon word my son and should you ever hear a dragon say it you will understand it in all its depth and subtly.  I can only crudely translate the word for you as a form of the word "mine."  The way you are mine.  Infact I only came close to understanding Savath the first hours of your birth my son.  When I held you, you were Savath to me.  Its a word of love, possession, passion, it gives both the giver and reciever of the word a bond.

During the Age of Dragons each child born in Skald heard a Dragon call them Savath and it gave them peace and purpose and a sense of their place in the universe.  Savath is so strong that after the Dragon Wars when the dragons left Skald their cattle refused to leave the lands or change the lands encase their dragons came home.

The Arcanists attempted to take them through magic and force, thinking the dragon's pets would make fine servants for themselves but they didn't understand about Savath.  The people of Skald already belonged to something greater, and would not serve the Arcanists.  They caused insurections within, they fought, poisoned, set fires were killed or set free and made their way back to Skald.

Those that didn't make it were soon collected by Drake of Skald.  He unified the men of Skald into a fighting force and they raided into Canus finding and freeing their people and bringing them back home.

  Legend had it that his mother gave birth during the last days of the Dragon Wars and taking shelter by a fallen dragon he was born coated in dragons blood.  It was thick on his mothers breasts when he took his first feeding and the dragons soul and fire nourished the baby and molded the man.

Whether the legend was true or not Drake cut a dramatic figure when he stood among his people.  Drake was a giant among men, he was a head taller and half a man broader than any man of Skald and they had already been bred to be broad and tall.

He wore and armor of black dragons scales set onto sharp edged dragon leather.  The scales were set making thorned ridges down the sides of his arms.  White steel chain linked at his sides and places where he would need flexablity.  Leather pieces were stained and sewn into the pattern of two great talons that threatened to tear off his rib cage.  More steel links ran twenty rows deep over his hips.  Shiny black leather pants fit tightly into dragon scale armored boots.  Several of the scales could be ripped off the boots and thrown as knives.

Drake was a war child and his graceful stances his swift movements, warned that he was always vigilant always ready to make a potentially deadly move.

His face painted a different picture.  Years had grown him a golden beared which he kept neatly ungrabably trim.  His golden hair hung in page boy style and few hairs dared stray out of place.  His eyes hungered for something.  The color of smoke, they scanned faces and places, with a yearning.  His large human nose picked up scents no human could.  Breathing in once, the air about you told Drake where you came from that day, what you had eaten, what girl you had kissed, and if you were pleased or frightened to be in his presence.

His mouth was even more human looking, full, plump, pinkish, girlish even.  Kissable.  Do not ask how I know this my son, since Drake was of several ages before your mother's birth, but I can tell you because I am a time traveler, Drake of Skald was most kissable.

thoughts on the story so far

I've been sickish for a week and I've been wrestling with how to repost the wonderful piece I did with Skald as a 1st person narrative and flailing.  I finally figured I can't salvage the piece, I need to use it as inspiration and move on or I'm going to miss the writing groove I've got going.

So starting tonight, new stuff. built on the old stuff.

-kat