~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.