Tonight I am the blackest flower


Midwife of the lewd, hero to the anti-heroes, lonely and alone. My fresher scars itch. I assume petulance and run my hands over my thighs while I do it.

Last year, my hero and mentor Mark Pauline abandoned me for the safety of complacency (“I’m in a difficult position with my wife.”), my best friend and ex-husband now eats through a tube and I’m considered too much a threat as “media” — and who I am, and what I do — to be allowed into anything that can help him. Hooray for the “SRL community”. Hey, I just know how the machines run, how to fix and run and load them, and where to put the tools away. And I write about *my* experiences — just mine. According to Mark, and all of them, it’s all about this post. No other explanation. It’s like no one ever read my blog before. So many lies in my inbox; they all contradict each other. As Todd said in our many conversations about my ostracizing from SRL (when he could still talk), it was just an opportunity for some people to make politics and petty jealousy priority over machines. He hated it, the attacks on me. We talked about it often; drinks in my kitchen, on my phone. Sometimes he’d pester me too much; now I miss him like a hole in the heart.

But in my inbox: I watch their lies disappear with a clinical disinterest. On New Year’s I held, laughed and drank with the man who means the most after all; he’s my family, and he was there when it happened to Todd, and to have his love is everything. I reached for mourning, and found it, and it’s had me pinned for four months. Has Mark contacted me since the accident? No. I was his best man at his wedding and dedicated every book I ever wrote to him; I was a foolish young girl to an old man who just didn’t care or notice. I am glad a certain SRL member has stopped defacing the Wiki article about me to put me in SRL past, but I’m sure she will resume. My steel-toe Docs are bigger than yours. I have swallowed my SRL history, all (as of today, 1996) 12 years of it, and I own it. It’s mine, and of great consequence. I know more underground SF history than anyone will ever comprehend. Charting my SRL troll, other stalkers, their IP’s and saving the SFgate death threats gives me a bizarre hope, like a boat on a sharp horizon — even though they think they’ve removed all their evidence. My files from the attacks and hate of 2007 fill me with terror and rage.

I miss the machines now more than the people. Hacker Boy told me once when he flirted with me at SRL, “A machine will break your arm, but not your heart.” Now I think it’s equal.

Many confuse my blog for fiction. It is not. It is a fucking memoir for as long as I last. I stand hexed under the banner of fucking and blogging, though I have not lost my faith. I was the little blonde girl whose crackhead mother beat her with a belt — until I learned not to cry anymore, and she stopped beating me. I chose the streets of San Francisco and her filthy milky bosom as soon as I could. I love sex, and people who want to love it, and I know I can leave a legacy because I have nothing left to fear; I have nothing and have lost everything. I pay and I pay and I pay. At least the acts of the sick and insane push me away from having friends who are emotionally diseased.

But this morning I bring your sexy flowers (pictured); the vast galleries of girls from an era gone by, from Paragon Past, wishing someone would fall into my body tonight and fuck me into the big crash and burn.

It’s 5am. Goodnight, and welcome back to more personal blogging in 2007.

Update: Curiously, I just saw that all the individual text I wrote about the machines has been removed from the SRL website and replaced, no longer saying “text by Violet Blue”. Good thing I took screencaps of the online (and offline) crew lists because I bet someone will erase me from that as well. Hacker Boy was dropped from the SRL list too: guilt by association is all we can guess.

Happy birthday, Todd.

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