Once upon a time, there was a young girl. She was quite odd and passionate about unusual things. She loved to write-- and that was where she kept all her strange ponderings, never sharing. She met a man. The most beautiful and spellbinding creature she had ever encountered. She had no idea that kinds such as these existed.

They began their friendship with written correspondence. They discussed the deepest of topics, always the things that were steeped in their minds, mired in their marrow. She learned his joys and his hurts. What he lived for and that for which he'd die. She glimpsed his soul and soon fell deeply in love with him.

He, on the other hand, did not love her. She was like a curious sea shell that he happened upon. One he picked up, turned over slowly in his hands, examined closely, marveled at the uniqueness... and then promptly threw it back into the roaring sea. It was interesting enough, but it lacked his prerequisitional aesthetic qualities that would have made it a keeper. As she sank into the deep and the strong currents took her away, the man continued to walk, perusing the shell-littered beach.

Much time passed. Hindsight took his handsome face in both her hands and offered him a clearer perspective. He sought out and eventually found the girl he disregarded. She still loved him deeply. He gave her the nickname "Mazzy". And to this day, she still writes to him from her odd and passionate perspective.

Pearl.

I was named for my great-grandmother.

Physically, her and I could not be more different. She was a tiny woman, just barely brushing 4'2" of height, with a figure that fit into children's clothing. I am terribly tall for a woman with shoulders that fit better into men's clothes and curves that seem contrary to my otherwise masculine frame. Hers was raven hair, of native american heritage. Mine is the stubborn strawberry of Scottish descent. Her skin was smooth and dark, like polished pearls gleaming at midnight. Mine is freckled and fair. Her eyes were the tone of brown that seems black in the right lighting, an echo of trouble always brewing behind them. Mine are the green of forest glens, the spark of a witch, but innocent nonetheless.

Perhaps that is the key: the trouble brewing behind the eyes.

Perhaps that is why I was named for her.

For hers is a name of great expectation.

She was a woman of worth.

She was a priceless pearl.

I wish to be only a fraction of what she was.

Where I have physical strength, she had strength of spirit.

Where I have bitter dread, she had unflagging optimism.

Where I have exhaustion of tedium, she had perseverance.

Where I cursed God, she bowed her head to pray.

Hers is a name of great expectation.

I try. I try to be everything that I can be, to live up to her name.

They tell me I've done it. They tell me I am a woman of worth. They tell me she is proud from heaven, to be tied to me in name. They tell me she would have liked me.

I believe them.

She would have liked the timid child I was, that hid intelligence in silence. She would have liked the girl, who stood in front of bullied children and told their tormentors to stand aside. She would have liked the teen, who sang and danced and acted her way onto international stages. She would have liked the young mother who taught Sunday school and fostered to others and held her babies all night instead of sleeping. She would have liked the woman who grew vegetables and rolled in grassy fields and made mud pies with children in the backyard. She would have liked the preschool teacher, who held the hands of crying parents, forsaking her paycheck so impoverished children could go to school for free.

She would have liked the parts I share with the world.

But would she like the creature that hides behind my eyes?

The mischief

The hate

The desire to be free of it all-

to runaway-

Would she have liked the part of me that I keep quiet?

I think she would have.

Because she is me and I am her.

In that little part we keep hidden--that spark of mischief that danced in her eyes.

In that tiny hunk of darkness the both of us were given at the center of our souls.

In that strength to crush the ugliness inside of ourselves and mold it into what we'd like the world to see--

what we'd truly like to be:

Pearls.

Delasity is a word of my own creation. Delasity is all that exists beyond our limited understanding or comprehension in this lifetime, as we know it. I remember sitting outside at night many, many years ago, watching the trees sway in the wind, seeing the many stars in the sky and the mood shining its light and casting its shadows. I felt at peace, and in complete awe. In that moment, I could feel everything that exists beyond what my eyes can see, and my mind was opened to the immensity of what we do not know or understand, and how even if we could know the answers to all the mysteries surrounding the meaning of life, we could never fully comprehend what those answers would mean with our human minds. It's just too big, too immense, too boundless and limitless to be contained within our human form.

This is Delasity.

"Becca Waits"

began one summer afternoon in the back alley behind Robertson St., in Los Angeles, California, where I was taking a break from my bike ride.(No, I'm wasn't in it for the health aspect, it was actually my transportation.)

I had been in L.A. for about 4 years by then, purely by accident. My better other and I had left San Diego, enroute to San Francisco, and kinda got stuck in L.A.

My story is gritty, I won't get into all the details now, but I had lost my amazing 19 year old son to suicide 6 years back, and I wasn't in the best shape.

Life was hard.

I dealt with it desperately, through any means that could soothe me the slightest bit.

I remember sitting on a brick wall, behind some cafe,

And i was gazing up at the sky,

And I felt a hope,

Almost like a magic,

rising in me.

And I took out my journal that a friend has just bequeathed to me, and I started writing.

I started writing about pain,

turning into purpose. I started writing about a girl waiting,

with all the odds against her; a girl in a dark place.

This girl was waiting for the woman in her to take hold,

To rise up from the ashes,

into the Self she was meant to become.

Burst forth like a glorious Phoenix, and do amazing things, transform lives of those hurting all around her.

It was a beautiful, ethereal, epic poem.

It has not ended yet.

Since that day, I write in other formats, but there is an occasional sprinkle, sometimes a burst, of "Becca Waits" themed poems.

I eventually had enough that I started configuring an idea for a chapbook, and even went as far to pitch my idea to an online readers and writers site Channillo.com) as a series.

(Which to my great joy, got accepted to, and thus far, about, oh, 8 months, or maybe even over a year ago now, after storyboard and tons of index cards, and grand visions and dreams, I have submitted about a total of less than 5 entries. Maybe less than three,,

I have many names across many places.

I have been known as Zee, Zedd, Rainbow, Zenora that one silly time, Connie, Ms P, and many more.

Most of these are just names.

Some of which were names I gave to parts of me I did not understand were pieces of my whole.

But that's a story for another time.

The name you have here has a simple explanation.

You see, I'm eighteen.

Please don't use my age to judge me, there are so many other things I get judged by already.

Things I wish people never decided to care about in the first place.

If no one chose to care about weight or race or class or wealth or sexuality or gender or...

The world would be different, wouldn't it?

But I suppose that wouldn't be very human of us.

Sorry to ramble.

And on with the show.

You know the story of Icarus, right?

There was a boy who was trapped on an island with his father.

And one day, his father had a most brilliant plan.

"Come, Icarus.

My darling boy.

We shall flee this place.

I have invented wings for our flight and nothing and no one can stand in our way!"

Little Icarus was excited.

Who knows how old, exactly.

I'd like to think he's my age but choose which you will for I have been him since I was eleven years old.

The day came.

They flapped their wings and they flew.

What no man had ever done before, they achieved it.

And Icarus flew.

And Icarus flew.

And Icarus flew... A little too high.

His father had warned him.

Not too much, not too little.

These are your limitations, young one.

You must do it this way and only this way or...

But Icarus didn't want to just glide in the middle.

Icarus was human.

Curious.

Passionate.

A whole lotta stupid.

So you know what he did?

The very opposite of what he was told to do.

His fascination with the sun made him soar...

Higher and higher...

His want for something more than just this, it cost him

Everything

And suddenly, he wasn't flying.

He was falling.

It means many things to me, his reach for the sun and crash to the waves.

Too many to begin to say.

Because I have been Icarus so many times that I felt it fitting to take his name, perhaps a piece of him with me as well.

His courage.

To be foolish.

To be so maddeningly foolish as to reach for a glow with a fire that he knows will burn him.

Kill him, if it has to, if it must, as long as he feels his warmth even a little while.

It was Camus that said "we must imagine Sisyphus happy".

I once read a version in which the sun loved Icarus so much it saves him.

But that's wishful thinking, beautiful as it may be.

It is always us, in the end, that save ourselves.

And there is beauty to his particular tragedy.

To sinking beneath the waves as he did, knowing he got closer to the sun than anyone ever had.

Knowing he tried.

Knowing he could have cruised along the middle just as he was meant to.

Choosing to be a mad, naive fool anyway.

I'm yet another mad naive fool on a planet where people like us are bottom-barrel.

And well... Living is hard.

Being a person who can't fight against and repress the urge to chase after my suns feels akin to all forms of insanity, feels almost criminal

You must be smart, money-minded, good enough.

Be just like you should be, just like everyone should be, no complaints, no shaking.

And then, you will be happy.

...I tried.

I failed.

And then I realised that if I am going to end up drowning anyway, I might as well make a jolly good joke of it.

Have a laugh or two wherever I can find the strength.

We take life too seriously, don't we?

We must imagine Sisyphus happy.

And perhaps, just maybe...

The boy in love with the sun laughed as he fell.

It's my name.

Lost in translation within multiple layers of unnamed alter ego.

Jumbled words is my second name.

Derived from homophones, which originated from the month I was supposed to be born into.

I am simply a name lost in thought

Lost in meaning

With a speck of my unhinged identity

I am a subconscious thought, purposely made, of a person whose in the verge of destroying oneself.

It was simply a last ditch resort

of saving a wailing child within.

It was supposed to burn everything down

Together with this subconscious thought

Burn everything

Leaving nothing even passion

And yet

When I light the match stick

with a flick of a hand

—a shriek bombarded me

Piercing me whole

Followed by another wail from within

Desperately

Defenseless, I couldn't fought the cacophonies filling me

And I found this place.

Within the few moments of discord

The wailing child escaped from the cracks

And hid here.

I am the subconscious thought

Purposely made

To protect the neglected child

From my own self

From me

myself

So desperately.

It's about the aesthetic. The way the angles elbow into one another, in the illusion of "Greater Than versus Greater Than..."

But of course, there is too, the importance of the Number 7 in my personal histoire and in the Universal. Representing fulfillment, and bearing significance in most every spiritual persuasion, the figure is consistently considered Lucky.

In psychology 7 is the Magic Number of things typically stored in our short term memory...

The number is also associated with Venus, the Planet of Love. And Biblically 7 represents the unity of the Holy Trinity with the four corners of the Earth, and of course, the day of Rest.

V is no less compelling to me.

In Law, v is vie between the Plaintiff and the Defendant... Winged like the silhouette of an indescript bird, v is the symbol of creativity, victory, and birth. While noted as a Feminine form, it connotes creative sparing, the vulnerability of teamwork; indeed Life itself. (Like in the French: C'est la Vie!)

I see it as an ephemeral mark of unifying balance... Oddly, it is the center point of my real given name, and does not actually exist in the alphabet of my parents native tongue.

But again, in sum, 7v7 is about the graphic aesthetic. Arresting the eye momentarily, then rolling off the lips with simplicity and poetic ease as Seven v Seven.

Your Name...? Challenge @H1

I used something simple because I didn't have the confidence to quickly choose a username that I wouldn't regret later. Honestly I don't think I expected to ever return after my first few posts, I joined on a whim needing an outlet. That's why I stuck with the old tried and true (for me) half expecting it to already be taken.

But at least I was right, years later I don't regret my choice because today after over a years absence I was able to log back on effortlessly, I easily recalled my information. As to why I was absent so long at first it was computer issues then life got in the way. Glad to be back.