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............

Intent

I did something that borderlines wicked yesterday. I've been feeling around the edges of my interior since then, testing for regret or disappointment in my behavior, but have yet to discover a loose thread. I think at this point in time I can rest easy that I'd do it again.

Shopping, the one aspect of this season I don't enjoy. I haven't been in the mood for it, but I coerced myself into entering a god forsaken shopping center yesterday. People are the most interesting part of shopping, usually, and if anything, I can usually leave a place of purchase with my mind filled with mental notes to jot down later.

But yesterday. I could hear this woman, over and over like a loud speaker in my ears that I couldn't turn down, or shut off, or even escape. She was screeching at her two tiny children in a tone that grated over my skin like course sandpaper. I would intentionally get 5 lanes away and still couldn't escape the tone of her voice, the shrill of her temper and the detestable words she seethed at her kids.

I am one that is all for discipline in children. No matter the place, no matter the time. I've always held far more respect for the Mother who corrects their child despite possible embarrassment in public then the Mother who turns a blind eye. But this woman........she was disgusting. Telling her little ones to shut up because they were both whining, over and over.....One was hungry, the other needed to go to the bathroom.

"Shut up you little shit" "Shut up or I won't feed you till tomorrow" "Say another word and you can pee your pants" "Shut up or no Santa for you this year." " Say another word and I swear you'll be sorry" smacking their legs.......smacking their hands.......tears streaming down their faces......her nasty ass swaying up and down the lane filled with Christmas ornaments.

She made my stomach roll.

So I followed them, to the check out line. The only space between her and I was the two feet I allowed. I looked over her into the sad little eye's of one of her boys and held his attention with my silent inquiry. He bit his lower lip with his top teeth. Quivering, his whole body resisting the attempt to sob another inspiration for her threats. I could see her squeezing the other ones knee in what I'll assume was another non-verbal threat. His little hands were trying to push hers away.

I winked at the boy who was looking at me, gave him a soft smile and tapped his Mother on the shoulder. She whirled around, looked up at me with a what the fuck do you want look and I spoke just as loud as she had been doing her humiliate her boys.

I said something to this effect. "What don't you stop telling your boys to shut up and listen to what they've been trying to tell you for the last 15 minutes."

To which she said, "Shut up and mind your own business"

To which I replied," Oh, that's the best you can say to me, your boys, Shut up. Well in my world telling someone to shut up is like saying fuck you, I can handle that, but you should know, saying that to your children is disgusting, demoralizing and something you'll have to atone for as their Mother for the rest of your life.

Silence and glare.

To which I replied, "Your welcome for the reality check and Merry Christmas"

And she turned around, and I stood my ground and let her sweat it out through the cashier. The air around us was on fire.

I'd like to have smacked her around a bit. Squeezed her shoulder till she couldn't contain her tears. I'd like to have done many things to her, but society law prevents such eye for an eye justice.

She left the line and proceeded straight to the bathroom. Thankfully.

I'll never know if my saying something rained a terror of hell down on those boys as soon as they got to the car. Or if my words sparked something else within that woman. But there's no way she will forget anytime soon the tall lady with eye's like ice who twisted the table on her and shoved a little humiliation up her nose for a minute of her day. I stand by my intervention.

*********

All******** is the result of a three day later edit******
There are days when the reality of my choices snake through the pit of my stomach.

My decisions seep through my blood like a disease and clouds my vision with parallel truth.

The weight of my chosen consequence buckles my knees and I find myself flat on my back surrounded by Lavender Black.

If only, to my core, I had understood the gravity of the time sentence I nailed myself to the cross for......in the name of self sacrifice and doing the right thing. The white stupidity of choice based on **** destiny. *******************************. ********* know. ******** know. I can't regret that. I won't.

And the ******, touched by my choices...the additional deciding factors. Some days, I'd like to slam my fist in their faces so they could feel what I feel, so they knew what I suffer, so they felt in their core what I placed aside for them. Their comforts. Their convenience. Here, I fall into selfish mentality, I want them to appreciate, to understand, to realize. To see.

No one can know the scope of my truths. That liability must remain mine and mine alone. That's the problem with ****** ****** and self imposed solitary confinement of the mind. I choose to enact a ******* life in the name of time and growth. Save the last dance. Wait. I was the one of less character, weak in the space of *****. I did this. I negotiated this painful tick of the tock. Fucking Patron Saint of the Clandestine Heart. I'll never succumb to ******, but perform the task of swallow in and spit out my penance.

For my ****, still walks hand in hand, with my *****. That hope and truth has become tangled with **** and ******, for now. A possibility that could dissolve by divine ******. What a horrid truth to gamble against.

This *** entry is a liability of *** *****.
And today I don't give a shit.
***and today I do*****

~Pudeur~

Secret The succulent nature of
So seamlessly stitched to my shrine of shame

Privacy Held honorable
Tenaciously Tiresome
The articulate veil of Quiet Self Respect

So pretty a sisterhood of narrow Definition

The Hand that knows my name. Addictions that entice the most hardened of thoughts. Persuasion in the Need of Eternal Eastern Compass. Blood and Bones to feel. Words laced with riddle. The strange comfort of lavender breaking down. Automatic detachment. A musical note floating on taste. Pleasure in hard passion. Cloud of smoke around my eyes. Black boot on the chest of humanity. Truth in silent conversation. Heavenly aromas lingering in past memory. Premeditated course of action and inclusion. Authentic sterotype. My concrete postion within the hyperbola. Time the Erosion of Identity. Too Close is To suffocate. Selective friendship. Provocation of idea.

I find
a way to be

Intuition

I didn't think I would drag writing about my daughters into this place, but my worry seems to lean into this sort of darkness, rather then the happy go lucky aspects of Motherhood I've wrote about elsewhere.

Two daughters, two worlds of individuality. My eldest is someone I would consider most Mothers picture of the ideal. She's physically gorgeous, straight A smart, a delight to be around, popular, confident, kind, compassionate and a high school cheerleader to really add a pretty pewter frame around her persona. She seems to have inherited every trait I like about myself and enhanced it times double. For her, a path in life seems firmly established. I can see her movements, her progression, the direction or course she's skipping lightly down. That predictability is easy to flow with, foresee and accept. It's all bright with strobe lights and a cheering section..........

And then my darling younger daughter............
A brilliant soul. Smart beyond her years, too smart to ever fit in with her peers, though she tries. A 13 year old doing high school courses. Next year, it's college time. A child I've fought hard to give a childhood, as well as letting her mind expand beyond the scope of most humans. I'm sick of them testing her, wanting to send her away. She already knows she's different, painfully so. "My Mom seems to be the only one that sees me in this erroneous world" says the little piece of paper absently left on her floor. I read her words and see she can look through the dark veil I've often peered at my world through........this frightens me.

She's yet to grasp the fine art of hiding her written words and she writes tenaciously these days. She's started a novel. She writes in the journals I give her. She writes on scrap pieces of paper and scribbles in the margins of her school papers. Just as I did at her age. It's like looking into a mirror of my own history.

She's writes with words beyond her years. She crafts metaphors that stab into the core of my understanding and I dare I admit, I see some of the darkest parts of my mentality seeping through her interior. I don't want that for her, I wouldn't wish my sort of mind on anyone, yet, she's right, I do see her and unfortunately, I understand. But I don't know how to protect her, explain it to her, teach her how to handle it.........

All the tests say she's a Math and Science genius first and foremost, but the part that perplexes all the people poking her is that she is accomplished in every level they throw at her. I am not even close to the intelligence level she resides in. I don't know what it's like to wake up from a sleep and feel a pressing need to measure the entire house so that ones knows the true square footage of the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. She does.

But I do share her insomnia. I don't even try to make her go back to bed anymore. The doctor sealed that deal when he told me to let her do what her mind needed. The two of us, 3:00 a.m, reading, or writing for me, and her, the same, or building something, or painting. Two fucked up minds trying to find peace in the middle of the night together.

The worry is cresting inside me. She's becoming more and more quiet. I can see it in my mind, her hurling down a black hole that I cannot follow, or yank her back from. I'm accomplished in the fine art of retrieval of ones mind.....but it took practice and conscious awareness. Things she couldn't possibly understand yet........

In her written words I see premonition of things to come. I hadn't thought all these years of what the repercussions of a bursting mind like hers would do when the normal onslaught of puberty came on. I envision it like a clash of the Titans. Can my young daughter handle it? Can her mind emerge on the other side unscathed and whole?

I sit here and remember with great clarity how hard it was for me to emerge, bloody, but whole on the other side of puberty, my teens. I still smile at the mere fact I lived. I didn't want to, I was always one emotion away from becoming a statistic in those days. One does not forget those emotions and thoughts. I could, can, barely keep a hold of the mind I've been sentenced with........and she has so much more going on inside of her brain then I ever had to deal with.

I know in my history and intuition, my worry is warranted. Unlike my older daughter, Kates future is hazy to me, masked by unknowns and variables I can't define. I just hope, that she allows me to continue to see her, that the trust remains. Because I know, although she may not fully understand it yet, that she holds all the power to detach from everyone around her and go wandering off into a place in her mind she may not feel like leaving...............that truth has always been the constant of my life.

A Personal Push

One of the things I don't like about my other journal is, I feel inclined to self edit. A personally imposed expectation that my own selective writing has birthed. A dynamic I adhere softly and saintly along, but, I am not a saint. I never embellish to impress or paint something I am not. I don't see any reason to. But on that journal I write about the nice things. I compose my idea's in an appealing manner that has received a positive acceptance. But a saint, I am not. Sometimes, I resent the impression through omission, I've given.

I believe writing by it's very nature is the art of illusion. The impressions in a public journal world is tricky and subjective. Not all that is written, is a persons round robin. Not in my case anyway.

I have all these other truths, thoughts, opinions, and ideas within myself, that never see the light of day. Or, my truths land hidden in the hand written journals I prolifically maintain, yet, those will never will see the light of day. When I die, I already know some unsuspecting family member will inherit the shock of the whole truth about me....I'll be dead, I'm prepared for that......

Between my reality world and this Internet world, I see and observe so many thing I'd like to write about, but typically resist. In my real world, I do things that probably shouldn't make it's way into a public content either but if I'm honest with myself. I must admit I'm aggitated and frustrated with my reclusive behavior.

It seems, either I start to claim all of myself now or I wait another 5 years and really regret my rotting silence with a fevered hatred.

Why this? Why now. I will give credit to a friend I consider as close to me as I've allowed in friendship. She said, with a dramtic pause meant to pierce my interior, "Rebecca, I consider you one of my closest friends, but at times I feel like I don't know you at all and it isn't because I haven't tried to understand."

That is the truth I need to shift, that impression, that illusion, the quiet recluse. I can't find any honor in my behavior.

Solutions

This is my solution to losing Lavender Black through AOL.

I need a black hole to entertain and channel certain words and thoughts. The thoughts I alone understand evolve from the nocturnal side of me that does not dance hand in hand with the vanilla taste of my other journal.

I already maintain and divide the two halves of me in reality, it feels only natural do to so in my writing capacity.

I needed a place to listen to a collective music selection, one that can handle the entire range of my moods, while I'm writing. This has turned out better then my Ipod. I've loaded this site up with my personal religion.

I want a place I can write Fuck and not worry about any one's idea of propriety. Sometimes I covet writing some really fucked up thoughts because, I have a twisted side, and it deserves it's own seamless chapel. Red X works beautiful.

I need a place to write things no one in the world needs to understand. Passages that may carry destination and meaning, while other entries can be designed with abstraction. In this chapel, perception is entirely irrelevant.

I had comments turned off for the longest time in Lavender Black, until someone talked me into turning them on. I'll continue to honor that outside rational, although the actual act of leaving them on still makes me highly uncomfortable. But, I shall see......jury of one is still out.

And this is for when I feel haunted.

Or beautiful.

Or tormented.

Or inspired.

Or provocation.

Or black
Lavender Black.