~Not Yet~

If I'm not eradicating emotional static here, the allure of this black zone softens and I find myself typing words and erasing them. Thoughts come forward, shake their head and move back into the recesses of my mind. And this is where I find myself early this morning.

Wanting to write, yet, devoid of direction. Writing about a sloven desire is hardly a remarkable topic, but in my world, half the battle is intention. The majority of the time I feel like the person that I am, and the person who desires a writing venue are two separate souls residing as cohabitants inside the complex apartment that is my mind. Sometimes we are at odds, rarely do we move in unison and frequently, one overrides desire in the other and claims victory. Seldom do these characteristics that embody me, sway hand in hand. Today is a forced compromise. The result is mundane banter.

Write. Writing. Writer.
I claim to write.
I admit I am prolific about writing.
I never claim to be a writer.

I'm saving the last claim for a succulent occasion worthy of the actual proclamation. I must observe the word 'writer' different from most. It seems, just about anyone can and does claim to be a writer these day. Especially with the advent of the Internet. I however, place my personal definition of writer on a pedestal and honor it's ambitious possibilities defined only by tangible achievement. Since I have not achieved or even approached my ambition, I'd rather people not lump me in same category of those that have.

I guess I write this slow and circling entry because someone within my circle placed me on the spot this weekend and proclaimed to masses I was a writer. It left me speechless and holding an empty explanation in the faces of grinning admiration (?). I understand it was an innocent compliment, however, in such a public atmosphere......it irritated the fuck out of me. If I don't claim it, why must others imply it or worse, proclaim it loudly?

I would like this.
Rebecca writes. A lot.
Enough said.

Temporary Pauses

It's been awhile. A temporary pause in the extraordinary fickleness that is Rebecca. My writing production is typically in direct proportion to my moods. In my world, silence is the faculty of a really fabulous mood, or a very dire black hole. The middle zone is what I offer here. I don't think I need to point out which direction the month of January took me.

I have rethunk, redesigned and tucked away that delusional notion I was entertaining earlier in January...... the one about being forthright and upfront about issues, problems, internal clockworks and the entire "sharing" concept. Tried it out, licked it, chewed it, laid back on the family and friends output/input couch with my hands behind my head and spewed outward my personal life. Did not like it, not in the least, not even very little.

Problem. I understand now with that concept, is when someone like me outputs as I did (a rare occurrence), the input I receive comes back tenfold, overwhelmingly so, to the point I find I must crawl into a closet and separate my own thoughts from other peoples.

The backlash to that, is the beautiful people who were trying to help, find my sudden retraction from interaction confusing and personal. I shall not put people I care about in that precarious position again. There is nothing predictable and secure when it comes to an outside entity trying to engage within my borders. I've always understood that about myself and why I opened the gate is beyond excuse. I lured them all in with my words and when I began to feel suffocation, I pushed them right back out. Inexcusable. My fault. I know better. I must not forget my freak factor.

The positive note to my January is some lofty changes I accomplished and that are still in motion. When I jumped, I fell marvelously, but in the crush I achieved forward movement. I'll adhere to that for now and observe what I'm writing a year from now. Only time will reveal the depth of my tenacity and will of mind.

Step 2

All right. I'm done, enough.

The previous theme of -~ I eradicate some truths about my previous mentality that would have otherwise remained silent and self contained-~ is over. Your right Marc, if a doctor had gotten a hold of me I doubt the diagnosis would have been anything but dire. I'd be willing to admit that now.......

I've always been a great protester of swimming in ones 'issues' with flair and theatrics for the masses. A quiet tone for grievances and transgressions is more my style, without an audience. However, that hasn't exactly worked out for me either. Which explains the current course of action in the writing of this journal. Reveal enough, more then I would normally do, start from the bottom and work upward. Step 1. Realized.

At the moment, I think I'd rather write about the lint on the floor (irritating). Or the weather (decent finally). Or sex (always a mood elevator). There's politics (nervous.....). Books ( where has the decent Authors gone). And so on....So many topics, so little time.

Sex is a good topic I haven't dove into in a public arena. I'll have to diverge into that one someday. I keep listening to the song 'After Dark' by Tito and Tarantula (love the name) and have decided it deserves a delicious strip dance at some point in time in my life. The rhythm of it has some serious slink potential. There's nothing wrong with a little inspiration and tease in my humble opinion. I think, a crisp white, long sleeve Men's button up shirt, tall black stiletto boots, perhaps a tie...........Is 36 to old to change professions? A side job perhaps....evenings.......I do enjoy the world of Play Hard.

Insta improved mentality.........A good place to stop for the day.

Grand Overture

rI made a broad discovery the other day while reading Marcs online journal. Although this sort of result seems obvious now, I hadn't noticed the natural progression in people until I gulped in his journal, almost a months worth in one sitting, rather then reading in daily sips. Like I told him, it was like visualizing a broad overture of his movement through words. Reading his action felt joyous to witness.

Proximity to the here and now makes a soul a bit immune or blind to the grand scheme of things. The building blocks we erect on a daily basis to get from point A to point B appear subtle, a gentle progression of action (with the occasional life jarring moments). In the case of his journal, I see a positive incline of mentality, action and potential. Which made me curious. (damn cat)

So, I had to do what I subconsciously knew was a bad idea, and go back through my daily handwritten journal, Jan 1st to Dec 31st 2008. A prolific daily (despite my record online) timeline of my world. Since I'm fully aware that I ended the year on the down low, reading the progression into my current situation stung. Or perhaps that should read, it felt like a bitch slap of righteous award for a murky pond dwelling mentality.

My nose was so close to the ground starting Jan 1st 2008 out, I didn't even bother to look 3 feet in front of me. I simply didn't care about anything anymore. Not caring about anything seemed to be the general theme of my world for most of 2008. That is my truth. It's in the written and living history. It's reeks like a rotten, or broken mentality with nothing left to lose, page after ugly page.

I read my own words and flinched at how often I wrote the words "I just don't care anymore" I just can't fight anymore" "there's nothing left" "I'm empty" "They win" "I just don't give a shit anymore" "I couldn't take the pressure anymore so I gave up" " I don't care"........the general theme. Brilliant Rebecca. Well done. Smart thinking.

If only I had stopped to read, really intake my own entries by Mid-March, maybe I would have seen the general theme, seen the hill I was rolling down was wrong, terribly wrong, I could have caught myself mid assault, removed my nose from the ground and stood up with two fists ready to defend, fight.......care again. Maybe. But I didn't care and received my rewards.

My written self reminded me of a clown with a perpetual smile painted on her face and below the paint quivering downturned lips . It's all rather ridiculous and obscene now that I'm sitting up and looking around. I'd like to write out a string of profanity. Let it rip, exile my disgust with a vocal scream to myself and at the world. Just to let everyone know I'm fucking pissed now....mainly at myself, but there are a few individuals who deserve an ear and fistful.

Drinking in a years worth of my movement and actions was like downing a gallon of bleach. Not pleasant. That is truth. I claim my role, will have to live with it all like a scar on my face.

But I see now. And I care, very much. So far my writing this year has been nothing but unadulterated caring about myself, my actions, the direction I'm headed and solutions to heave myself out of the dark hole I was (am) buried in. I've gone to a girlfriend and spilled the entire truth (an extraordinary first), all the way down to the deep dark secrets behind the face paint. I upped the level of accountability to myself and another and now...........we'll see what I do with all of it.

I also promise myself to read my journal at the end of each month. Keep direct tabs on the building or destroying blocks. Pay attention to that grand overture, the sweeping rainbow that makes up a persons entirety. Caring feels much better then the alternative I assumed in whole last year. It's seems outlandish that I honestly went to the other side of that fence, but I did. A hard stone to swallow, but I taste it now. I'll have to consider that movement in itself.

Essential

I'm not sure of the timeline, but at some point before Christmas, I placed a rock of frustration within my mouth and closed my lips around it's uneven surface.

And then I exiled myself.

And I began to write.

There is a woman living in my mind that demands I write about her. I've begun to behold her as quite beautiful and full of compassion. When she smiles, or speaks, or simply allows her lips to form an O of expression, small lavender butterflies crawl or flutter from her mouth. The surreal symbolism doesn't fall blindly at my feet, she is my ironic hyperbole to a rock filled mentality. She's kept me company during a sociable implied segment of the year and I imagine now that she's filled so many spaces in my mind, erected a cottage in Lavender Black and occupied so much paper, her and I will remain together for life.

Voices inside one's head. Separate entities. Named people wandering through fantasy worlds located deep in my mind. Hand in hand friendships or enemies at battle. Everything playing it's order of business or duty without a vocal word uttered and a smile on my exterior person.

I, the essential me, plays God or demon to it all.

I'd like to believe there is nothing that unique about my thought processes. I believe everyone entertains the splintered mentality within them in one way or another. When I hear other people talk about these differences inside them, I hear words like, sad, lonely, self-doubt, insecurities, low self esteem, the ambitious side, shy, talented, the confident trait, etc etc. Banal labels of general emotions carried within us all.

I like to paint a pretty picture, that's all. It's not time for pink crayons and padded walls. A woman who speaks with lavender butterflies flowing from her voice is a metaphorical version of my desire to talk more. She's also grown into something beyond a fanciful notion and demanded a world of her own, a story of her own and I'm obliging her........

Translation comes in many forms and I do prefer the kaleidoscope view to the conventional mirror of life.

Proud Little Monkey

I was reminded of someone I once knew yesterday. Or perhaps that should read, someone slapped me with the truth of what I used to be, compared to the person I've become. Now, usually when you slap the beaten, they recoil, but this slap was like a hug. Refreshing, inspiring. I needed it.

I'd like to believe there is a natural evolution of character in a soul, a maturity of sorts. It should be, that the person one becomes at any age, is different from the one they were 5 years ago, 10 years ago, 15 years ago.........but enhanced, better if I may. A smart person would build off the best pieces of their interior and proudly carry those qualities into their future self. Protect those traits, shape them, paint them into new light. It should happen that way, and in some people, the ones I admire, I witness that beautiful truth.

But what if, the person you were those years ago, was the better person? That the person one became as they aged, turns out to be the absence of character. The shell of what was. A piece of flesh swirling in a void of silence and cowering trepidation. What if, that person has become the one who smiles into a crowd and glares at herself in the mirror. Can she go back. Would she seek out the aspects of her that she once proudly roared at the world.

The old frisky fighter in me says, yes, everything is possible, anything is opportunity and with a flick of reaction, change becomes movement. That woman would have kicked any ones ass if they tried to get in her way and wouldn't have apologized for it. But, the absence of character in me, protests, slumps her shoulders and reminds the desperado she made her bed and must sleep in the stale sheets. It's a clash of little young David and the big fat squatting Goliath. Two mentalities always at odds, throwing stones and delivering sucker punches.

When I look back over the minutes, the months, the years and try to pinpoint how in the fuck I allowed almost every admirable trait about me to be washed away, I see it play out like any chapter book. She started life on the Mercy streets, but as I continue to read, page by page, I witness the main character make terrible choices, accept the unacceptable. I hold my breath and turn the page knowing damn well that if she succumbs to this, or that, dire results will befall our girl. As the reader I can see what the villain on the page is thinking, manipulating, but in hindsight I'm powerless to knock some sense into her. I watch her go down dangerous paths, the wicked streets and observe the fight in her become weaker, and accepting of all the things that hit below the chin. Because I am the reader today, I know what she's thinking, the fraudulent image she's portrayed to those around her. The smiles hiding a truth she is too embarrassed to admit. Such a silly girl.

For me, admission is an obstacle of gigantic proportion. If there is one trait I've never lost, it's the tenacity to be absurdly protective of the things that are wrong in me or my life. Admission feels like the ultimate betrayal of an optimistic desire to fix everything on my own accord. A control freak stripped of effective power? That's a delightful oxymoron to admit. A pathetic fall from grace.

So what do I do. Today. Tomorrow. I can't retract the past, but I know I can do something about my future. I've placed a call for self help, in it's purest form. In the absence of Character I have a lot of space to remodel, redesign. The old self in me feels a bit rowdy and wants to walk across the room and take one on the chin for old times sake. If such behavior inspires a flicker of light through closed windows, then I'm ready and seeking the action that inspires the climatic turn of events in her book.

I really do miss her.........

~~~~

I hope the people who come to these pages, or discovered this hole of mine, understand this zone.

It's entirely
Self indulgent.
Self exposing.
Self help.
Self decapitating.
Self pity.
Self assuring.
Self embracing.
Self proclaiming.

Selfish.

Self.

Curiosity Killed The........

There are very few things in the landscape of Rebecca that can scare the shit out of me, or make my heart lodge uncomfortably in my throat, or give me goosebumps or even make me wish I could stop time. When such moments happen, it's usually because I've done something I knew I shouldn't. It's like peeking into a pre-wrapped package before Christmas when I know damn well I shouldn't and discovering the contents inside are nothing what I wanted. Once you've peeked, you can't take the image back, you can't remove the reality of it and place it back into the comfortable unknown files in ones mind.

I can usually squelch the cat in me. I've perfected the art of self denial. There are some things in life that unknowing ignorance, is a chosen choice of blind bliss. Sneaking a peek behind the veil of unknown can produce interesting results, sometimes, but usually, it's the catalyst that kills that cat. I'm a sad little kitty cat today.

I'm not exactly a foolish little feline. I know any tentative step in certain directions can leave me resting solidly on feet, or hanging from my tree of life by a single claw. I know that. Understand that. Choke on it. And most important of all, accept it as my punishment. A fair weathered perception I am not.

With this wrapped box, I know I'm overly sensitive, prone to flinch at the slightest gesture, the most marginal of suggestion. I'm aware of the delicate nature and balance that barely teeters upon a tiny glimmer of hope and future. I know all that, and yet, I miss. It's that simple........

Today, my minutes shall drag. Blocked. Denied and Hopeful I got around the system. Perhaps maybe, even, possibly, my sensitivity is unwarranted, for once.
Either way, tomorrow, my perspective will have officially shifted, once again, in a way that no one on Earth would ever see, or notice, or feel............