Boys are confusing.

Weaver: Boys make no sense.

Voice: They're not supposed to make sense. That's why they're boys.

Weaver: But they really make no freaking sense. I mean, take my friend Kurt for example. I have no freaking idea what's goin on in his head.

Voice: That's probably why you've been friends for so long.

Weaver: How did you know we've been friends since we were three? I dont' even think I've mentioned him before.

Voice: It doesn't matter. He's been a part of you for so long that even I recognize him.

Weaver: I don't know if I'd say he's a part of me... although Lords and Ladies know all of my friends are a part of me. But anyhoo. I've been in Vancouver for almost a week now. I absolutely adore it here. It's so gorgeous and beautiful... I mean, today it was pouring rain and we had to take down the show we were doing and bring it out to the car and such in the rain, and we got soaked, but I don't care. I still love it.

Voice: That's off the topic. We were talking about Kurt.

Weaver: Indeed, we were. About Kurt. I mean, I don't understand all of guys to a degree, but Kurt confuses me more tahn most, perhaps because I interact with him more than most. Although not so much this trup. He's been working all of this week, and so I've barely seen him, and when I do see him... I know that's he's tired from constantly working, and that he just got his new (stupid stupid stupid) video game Xbox 360 thingie, and so I tried not to take offense when he grunted at me and took no notice. I didn't even insert myself on his bed in deference to his fascination with the bloody thing. I just continued as I had been doing; hanging out with the older cicas. And while they're cool, I miss people my own age. Except that Kurt confuses me, of course. He eventually came down, and poked me and such. Is that not a sign of interest of teenage male in an old friend? I would think so. And when I did the natural thing and poked him back, and followed him to his room in order to attempt said poking, it just got even more confused. He seemed to waver in between playfighting (much the same type of thing that got me banned from Ryan's house... what is it with boys and that?) and seriously telling me to get out of his room... but how the hell was I supposed to tell the difference between what was real and what wasn't? I still freaking can't. That was two days ago.

Today, too, I didn't know what to do with him. When Mama made me cry this morning, I don't think he noticed because he poked me again, hard. I don't think these guys realize how strong they are. My brother and Kurt, I mean. They're both bigger and stronger than me now, much as it galls me to admit it. But neither of them seem to understand that they really hurt me when they pinch me as hard as they can or pin me or bounce on me or any of these things.

And it hurts. It really, truly, does. But for Kurt, it kinda seems sometimes like it's better to have him jumping on me and fighting with me and stuff than grunting at me and ignoring me and ordering me out of his room.

But then, he wavers between seriously ordering me out of his roomj (to which I'll gladly leave if I'm not wanted) and telling me that by getting me out of his room, he's won and I've surrendered and lost. It confuses me, it truly does. I can't tell whether he enjoys playfighting or not. Hell, I can't tell if I enjoy playfighting or not. Granted, like I said, I'd rather be playfighting than ignored, but UGH.

Voice: So basically, males are confusing.

Weaver: That's what I said, isn't it? He drives me crazy. And it makes me sad. Because I like to think that he's one of my good friends, and just because of stupid testosterone, he seems to connect better with my stupid brother than with his own stupid friend.

I guess I feel ignored. And unworthy, somehow. It's not like I won't survive if he basically rejects me, but it still kinda hurts, ya know?

Plus, wessah leavin' tomorrow. And tisn't like he gives a shit. Coupled with the people back home who don't give a shit, it's a whole big circle of shit.

Cept for my work, of course, this whole no giving a shit in general is enough to make one want to shoot oneself.

Ugh.

More private details of this shall remain... well, they shall remain private, yes?

MistWeaver

PS. I don't want to go home. I want Vancouver to be my home. I love it here. I belong here. I miss the rain.

-Twitches- o.O

Weaver: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Voice: Is it just me, or are you posting more these days?

Weaver: It's not just you. I think that since I've become (mostly) at peace with myself and the universe, I've also reconnected with the the things that are the most important to me. Namely, writing. I went back after my last post and re-read every single entry I've ever written on Blogger, from way back to October 2004 all the way to March 2nd 2006. And I realized something. I was really onto something with you, Voice. You went from a conscious entity to a mechanical figure over the last few months, and I didn't even notice.

Voice: Well, I certainly did.

Weaver: Why didn't you say anything, then?

Voice: Because I'm the voice in your head that tells you the things that you do and don't want to hear, but I'm still a product of yourself. When you refuse to listen completely, I am powerless. Or rather, let me rephrase that. I am powerless except for the power you give me. Luckily you happen to be an open minded individual, so I have a fair amount of power in my own right, and can speak mostly freely to you. However, as I said, I am still a part of you, and am therefore limited somewhat. Because, of course, you are only human.

Weaver: Woah.

Voice: Woah indeed. Now, why are you entering my domain this lovely morning?

Weaver: You've certainly bounced back with a wallop.

Voice: So have you.

Weaver: I'm here for a few reasons. One, boredom. I'm in class and already finished the assignment for once, and so I have nothing to do.

Voice: How flattering.

Weaver: Ah, ah. You haven't heard the other reasons. Why don't we go with the other non-flattering one first, eh? Twitchyness. I decided to beat my tiredness this morning and have a large energy drink to prepare me for the test I had first thing. Now, it is as if I am on speed.

Voice: And the last reason?

Weaver: Love, of course. I love it here in the mists. I love the grey, the scent, the sights... namely, how there is nothing to be seen but mist. I could have spent this time on any number of sites, but I've remebered, as I mentioned earlier, how much I love this place just for it's simple state of being. And you, of course, because you are the embodiment of the mists.

Voice: Except, of course, without the body...

Weaver: -coughs- Indeed. Oh, and I have several bits of news, and twenty minutes to convey them. It. Is 'them' proper grammar?

Voice: I believe so.

Weaver: Them, then. Carrying on. Also after rereading, way back in the days when I hadn't yet created you, I realize what it meant to be alone in the mists. And it wasn't always a bad thing, because nothing is ever a bad thing, but especially that and especially for a solitary person like me. And sometimes I need a break even from myself, so please don't be offended if I come into the misty place and don't call you occasionally. Maybe I could just recount my day, my feelings, without your input every once in a while.

Voice: If I were human, I most likely would have been offended and pretended not to be so as not to hurt your feelings. As it is however, I'm not. And that would be fine.

Weaver: Thanks for understanding. And now, for more mundane news. I'm not sure if I mentioned this before, but I've taken up with David Sicorski again.

Voice: Old lover?

Weaver: Old friend. Well, not that old. But I think he's a really awesome dude, and our friendship kind of drifted off when my life did. And I'm thrilled that I finally double-clicked that name on the MSN window, and talked to him. He truly is a funky chicken. And I don't mean funky as in "two things in the world that smell like fish" funky. I mean funky like FUNKAY!

Voice: Has this encouraged you to pick up the metaphorical phone and 'call' other old friends such as him?

Weaver: Sadly, there aren't many. Not in Calgary, where I'm trying to put together a life. Note how I don't say put back together a life. I never had one to begin with, here. And I'm sick for having a life for two-week or one-week or however long periods of time I'm in other places. This is my life, here, now, and I'm not going to sit and wait for it to end. That's going to be a long time in coming, anyway. My life's purpose won't be over for a long time yet, sadly. And I intend to enjoy my life's purpose. Not to mention the other incidental parts of it, too.

Voice: And what other news were you going to grace my presence with today?

Weaver: Ah, let's see. It's all fled my mind. I shall be going to Vancouver in a few days, to work the Vancouver gift show with my mother. Blair finally got the verdict on the case between her father and her mother... And her father won. They now owe him 400, 000 dollars, give or take. See her blog for details on that, but I think that it fucking sucks, personally. Perhaps because I'm going through something similar with my parents, but still. He never paid her mother a single cent of alimony or child-support, never bothered to spend any quality time with his kids except for a few weeks every summer, then comes back a few years later and demands everything. Now she's either going to have to sell her house and move (thereby uprooting her in her last years of High School, or her family's going to have to tak eout another mortgage just to pay him. And guess who decides which they have to do? Yeah, the same man who's making them pay him. He gets to decide, depending on what the house is worth. And they have to pay for another appraisal, less than 6 months after the last one, in order to do all of this.

What. The. Fuck.

Talk about great parenting.

Voice: That sounds like something, if you'll pardon the assumption, that your father would do.

Weaver: And we all know what a cork soaker he is, no?

MistWeaver

So You Don't Want To Hear About My Good Day?

Weaver: Have you ever wondered why I created this blog?

Voice: To be heard.

Weaver: Yes, of course you know that. But do you know why I created you, specifically you, from this blog originally just being a person ranting about life on their own?

Voice: To have somebody to talk to?

Weaver: Yes and no. It was to have somebody to talk to, but mainly to have somebody to listen. I mean, with my journal and the original blog (which was just an online journal), I knew that it would probably be read. But you, Voice, are the ultimate listener. Before you gained a life of your own (which was scary, incidentally), you were there from an idea I got from a site I used to visit all the time. You were there to listen and ask the right questions for me to give the answers.

But then I needed more than that. I needed somebody to talk to, and somebody to talk back. And that's when you gained a life of your own. But lately I've been needing just... somebody to listen. Somebody you can rant to. But ranting in a journal is better for the insane, uncontrollable feelings that take you over. They don't have to make sense. They can be petty or small. That's what the Jordan-party-rant was a few weeks ago. Really, if I could take it back I would, because those things aren't meant to be seen by everybody in the world. Why? Because they seem stupid afterwards, or at the time to other people. They are simple and petty.

But the little, subtle things? Those are the biggest problems. Those are the things that niggle in the back of one's mind. Those are what you, Voice, were created for, at the foundation of things. Because you bring out those little things, which is essential to be healthy. And I could never do that before. I held it all inside, all the time. I only let out those bursts of emotion, those journal-rants. But you developed a mind of your own, and found that true purpose that you were created for. To lance those festering, hidden, wounds.

You're what, I realize now, I crave on a basic level. So basic that it's more than a want; it's almost a need. To know that somebody is listening. To be able to rant without interruption, but with the knowledge that somebody is listening. That somebody places enough importance on your niggling problem, or even on you yourself, to listen with 100% of their attention. Not that they/we always do. But you care enough to pretend, at least.

You, Voice...You're the Voice in that grey misty place of doubt in my mind. You're all the nameless people who read my blog. You're my best friend, in a way, and you're my worst enemy because you're not always on my side and you know too much about me to be trusted.

Lately, you haven't said much. That's because I don't need your conversation right now. I just need to know that you're there. I need to know that you're listening, and you are. Because that's what you do.

Voice: And I am a voice and not a being because no being can be all that.

Weaver: It's not the fact that no person can be all this that drives me nuts. I don't expect that in anyone. But close friends (at least in girls. usually) tend to acknowledge the unspoken Rant Rules. And those are often what separate a friend from a close friend. A friend can talk about problems with you. A close friend will let you rant about a problem that affects you deeply (or anything, really, that affects you deeply) for as long as you need (within reason) before talking about said problem and discussing it. They will listen, or at least give you the illusion that they're listening. They will (if needed) nod and agree. But they won't add anything to the conversation, they won't argue, they won't do any of these things. That comes later. Because you can get the perspectives and arguing from anyone. But not everyone will let you tell the entire story--and not just tell it but rant about it--beforehand.

This is a very private thing because it can lay bare deep emotions, so you cannot rant to just anybody, either. But most importantly, by allowing yourself to rant freely and fully about a topic, you can be granted catharsis.

Warning. English nerd rant ahead.

Catharsis, for those of you not English Nerds, is a deep emotional cleansing, usually in a tragedy. See, in a tragedy the hero is brought down to the lowest of low, but once he has been stripped of everything, he is free to 'rise again from the ashes' so to speak. Start anew, and live again. And the audience too, feels catharsis. In a good tragedy, the hero isn't pitied by the end of the story, necause even though he's had all this horrible shit happen to him (and he brought it on himself, usually) he gains something purer from the whole situation. And because in this way, he has effectively won, he is usually granted death, or rather release from the hell that this level of consciousness has become for him. You know, historians argue over the definition of catharsis because Aristotle never defined it. But really, both sects are right. Catharsis is both the cleansing of the tragic hero, and the cleansing of the audience. Jeez. I'm in English 30 pure, and it took me all of four seconds to figure that out. These people have been at it for hundreds of years. How sad is that?

And catharsis, of all the tragedy characteristics, is really what separates the good tragedies from the bad tragedies. Hamlet, for example (and indeed, all of the Shakespeare tragedies I've read) is an excellent, excellent one. Probably because of Hamlet himself, because that's a whole other rant altogether. Did I mention that rants aren't always bad? But the ones about bad things are the ones that cause the most problems, generally speaking.

Oedipus Rex, which I just finished, is also an excellent play. But I don't think that it's the greatest tragedy. I believe that in its time, it definitely would have been a great, but as it stands in the modern age, the are so many little things that' dont make up, that it doesnt' quite have the proper effect.

Anyways. Enough of the English Nerd ranting.

So yes. You can be granted catharsis. You can be purged of the negative feelings somewhat, like lancing a festering wound. I mean, all that icky sick pus coming out isn't all that pretty, but would you really like to keep all that icky pus inside of you? Creating more pus and growing beneath the skin?

I think not. And if you disagree and think that gross pus is a good thing to have inside of you... get mental help. Please.

These hidden wounds need to be hit even if the rest of you feels fine and dandy. I mean, I had a great week. No, I had an absolutely amazing week. Not because the events in it were so much better than other weeks (because although they were better, they were only better after my week was already considered amazing) but because I wasm and still am, at peace with myself and the universe. And I'm as serious as it gets about this. Wholly and completely flowing with the universe. I know the true meaning to life and can see the beauty in the madness.

By changing yourself, you can change the world. Once you understand the world, you become one with the world. And once you're one with the world, you are the world. And once you change yourself as the world, you change the literal world. Your world.

Voice: That was not the point you were trying to make, however.

Weaver: Indeed. The point I was trying to make is that even when you're at peace, as I am, and had an amazing week, there are always things that irritate you or drive you insane or depress you. And while these don't disturb the peaceful foundation, they're still there, ready to start festering away. If you let them fester enough, they will destroy that peace. Or at least distort it in some way.

They can affect you so badly because they do affect you so badly. To begin with, that is. But you shove them to the back of your mind, where they linger. And in order to acheive the catharsis that will allow you to not only enjoy the positivity, but possibly to seperate yourself enough to solve the problem to a degree, these nagging little things need to be presented in freedom and completeness, if that's a word.

Voice: And what's the cause behind this particular rant?

Weaver: When I attempted to rant to Will earlier this eve/morn, he kept interrupting me and arguing with me about things. And then he'd interrupt when I tried to explain why I didn't want him to 'try to relate' as he calls it events from his life to those of mine. Or randomly asking an unrelated question. And although I listened and understood when he told me that he had indeed listened to eveything I said, despite his tendencies to mention everything that came to mind on MSN, he could not understand the concept of the Ranting Rules. This was probably because he would interrupt me every single time before I was done--including the final time, where he tried to start a my-life-sucks-more-than-yours test and fnished by telling me that my life is great compared to his, and I have no reason to complain about it. Thus missing the point of everything I attempted to tell him, and everything I just attempted to tell you.

But just his sheer obstinancy and idiocy was not enough for me to spend hours putting these concepts into the internet.

Voice: Then what was?

Weaver: It was the same thing that prodded me to create you, and come to think of it, the same thing that made the little girl from The Ring kill all those people.

It was the desire to be heard.

Good Day, by the Dresden Dolls

so you dont want to hear about my good song?
and you dont want to hear about how i am getting on
with all the things that i can get done
the sun is in the sky & i am by my lonesome
so you don't want to hear about my good day?
you have better things to do than to hear me say

gawd its been a lovely day! everything is going my way
i took out the trash today and i'm on fire...

so you don't want to hear about my good friends?
you dont have the guts to take the truth or consequence
success is in the eye of the beholder
and its looking even better over your cold shoulder

i'm not suggesting you up and line me up for questioning
but jesus think about the bridges you are burning
and i'm betting
that even though you knew it from the start
you'd rather be a bitch than be an ordinary broken heart

so go ahead and talk about your bad day...
i want all the details of the pain and misery
that you are inflicting on the others
i consider them my sisters and i'd like their numbers

gawd its been a lovely day! everything is going my way
i took up croquet today and i'm on fire

i picked up the pieces of my broken ego
i have finally made my peace as far as you and me go
but i'd love to have you up to see the place
& i'd like to do more than survive i'd like to RUB IT IN YOUR FACE! AH!

hey! its been a lovely day! everything is going my way
i had so much fun today and i'm on fire
GAWD ITS BEEN A LOVELY DAY!!! everything's been going my way
ever since you went away hey i'm on fire.....
i'm on fire...
i'm on fire...

so you dont want to hear about my good day?

Beauty in the Madness

MistWeaver: Okay. So let's forget about everything I've ever written for a moment and focus on one single question. Life. Why is it? Now let's look back on everything that's happened in the past few years to me, and voila. There is an answer. And it is: "Who cares?"
Voice: Very insightful.
Weaver: Thank you. I thought so. It's so true though. Really, who cares? Now, if you were to ask what life is, that would be a different matter. The answer to that one is even simpler, really.
Voice: Oh? And what's the answer to that question?
Weaver: Life is beauty. Life is pain. Life is sadness and mist and black pens and long nails and drugs and mosh and babies and sunshine and homework and love and hate and above all, life is beautiful. Even in the horrible scenes, the starving kids with the distended bellies, the beaten woman's hunched shoulders... it's all beautiful. Am I a freak for thinking that even the most horrible things are beautiful?
Voice: You need to see the horrible things in order to appreciate the wonderful ones.
Weaver: No, that's not what I mean. It's true, of course. But I mean literal beauty. Like, you look at it and think 'oh, that's beautiful' kind of beauty. It's sick, but there's beauty in the sickness too. Starting to understand me? Beauty. And one of the reason's it's so beautiful, I think, is that it's all madness. All of humanity is madness. That's our contribution to the Earth. Choas. But there is, above all, beauty in the madness. And that's why there's beauty in all of humanity's antics, good and bad, because it's all madness.
Voice: What brought up this subject, anyway?
Weaver: I don't know. It's just the kind of mood I'm in. I'm embroiled in the Email Wars again with my father, and the cynical amusement he always fills me with filtered into a kind of happy contemplation of life.
Voice: So how are things with your father, speaking of that topic.
Weaver: I don't really care how he is. Over the past few weeks, it's really occured to me just how little he matters to me. I don't hate him. I don't wish that I had a good father figure instead of a lying asshole with antisocial personality disorder (Sociopath, for those not not up to date with psych terms). And I'm not saying that with bitterness, truly. It's a fact. I went through the symptoms with the therapist the court is making me see. He's just... a source of amusement. One day I'll tell you about the sex letters we found on his blackberry around Valentine's. They made my day. No. They made my week. They were just so stupid and ridiculous. And really, if I were to look at the soap opera my life has become, or even if I cared at all about my father, I'd probably have to cry. As it is, it's all just a bit amusing. He's not a part of my life, and whenever he tries to intersect it again, how can I possibly take him seriously?
Voice: It didn't occur to you that he's possibly sincere? Just a suggestion.
Weaver: Yeah, for about four seconds. You'd really have to have lived with him (or be intimitely acquainted with the traits of sociopaths) to understand. He tells himself that he really cares and I'm being a silly teenager and lashing out and such because that's what society tells him is happening. To him, it doesn't matter how mature or intelligent I am, because I'm still a child in his eyes, simply by still being in high school. In reality, he cares pretty much nothing about me, except as what a father is supposed to as is regulated by (of course) society. And I accept that. When I first realized that I really didn't care one way or another about him, not even what society regulates to be the necessary amount, I felt guilty. But I don't. I've made my peace with what he is, and choose not to dwell on it. And that's another reason I'm so happy. And I suppose I do dwell still, because I can't believe how little I feel. And how free that makes me feel. And I can't stop talking about it, because it's so amazing.
Voice: Isn't that ironic? To not dwell gives you something else that you dwell on.
Weaver: But that's the madness again. The insanity of humanity and the flow of peace. That's what I'm feeling. Peace. And I'm seeing the beauty.