MistWeaver: Stupidity. That's what my life is. That's what I am. Here's what happened since before. In a nutshell, we ended up being scheduled to go out on Wednesday. He canceled on Monday, since he supposedly had too much work to do. I asked if he was still coming to my party on Saturday, and he said yes, and that he wouldn't miss it for the world. Today is Saturday, and after all the freaking out about work, and the anticipation and the cleaning and the worrying and everything, he's not here. Apparently, he's had a bad week and wants to be alone. That's a reasonable excuse. That's fair. It would have been nicer if he'd called or something, rather than leaving it to us to call him four times before he's even home, and then find out that way. The whole thing is pointless. Stupid even. I can understand wanting to be alone. I've had a less than ideal week myself. I like Tasha, and I like Blair. But it's like the entire week was for nothing. I planned this party after asking and re-asking if he could come. I planned it to see him. I used this day as something to look forward to for weeks. I worried and stressed and freaked out over what I would do about work for the past week, finally planning extensively and calling in sick. Why? Because I'm stupid. Because I'm incredibly, horribly, fucking stupid. I should just shoot myself now and save the world a favour. What's up with letting my feelings be so hurt over a guy? Why do I care so much? I know it's partly because of the way what's-his-face did a number on me, and just ignored me until I got the message. But I can understand not wanting to call for bad news. It's always so tempting to just not show up to work and let the phone ring when they call without answering. Don't want to be scummed out, don't want to disappoint. Especially since he KNEW I planned the party with him in mind. When we called to find out where he was, everyone was around. I was so expecting him to have an excuse. But then he wouldn't even repeat what he told Kai on speakerphone. And everyone expected me to be mad and order him to come and stuff but I couldn't speak because I was trying not to cry. Sure, everything happens for a reason but just ONCE I wanted it to work out and I felt even worse because even then I liked hearing his voice on the phone when I should really just get the hint and leave him alone. I mean, why the hell would he ever want to get with a chick that's three grades older than him? And his friend's sister? And then there's the fact that my father is doing the DD, who just happens to be his mother. And still through it all I just want to curl up in a corner and cry and cry and cry, even though I hate crying and to cry over a guy is stupid, especially
Oh God what's the point? I'm stupid. And I'm stupid to cry and stupid to care. He just signed in, and I don't know what to do. I don't want to yell or get mad at him. Blair and Kai already told him that he was making me cry, in a hope that it would make him want to come over. But why would I want him to come if he doesn't want to? That would just make things even worse and besides like I said, I know what it feels like to want to be alone.
Hurt and lies and loneliness and sex and sex and sex.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Back To Reality
Weaver: Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, STUPID.
Voice: What is it now?
Weaver: Why oh why was I stupid enough to call him?
Voice: Ah. I see now. So the phone call didn't go as expected?
Weaver: I can't even say that it didn't go as expected. I suck at calling people, and I suck even more at talking to them on the phone. It was like
Weaver: That's about when I started whacking myself. It's just that I'm horrible at phones, impressions, and just plain interacting with people. I have no idea whether he thinks I'm an alcoholic freak sex fiend or whether I should call him again or just pray that he comes online so I don't have to make a fool of myself on the phone again. Or maybe he'll call me. That would be nice. I like getting phone calls, just not sending them. I feel bad because I want to talk to him, but... Arg. I don't know.
Voice: It's amazing how the most put-together, self-assured people can be reduced to such a mass of conflicting emotion, is it not?
Weaver: I know. I hate my life. I like other people's lives. If only because they're not happening to me. I can help others, talk to others, watch others... But when it comes to my own life I'm a mess. Especially where the other gender is concerned. I've had a shower now, and I feel slightly better about it... I figure I'll get dressed reaaally slowly and then figure out what to do next. Capische? Capische.
Voice: You know--
But MistWeaver had already disappeared in a flurry of agitation.
Voice: What is it now?
Weaver: Why oh why was I stupid enough to call him?
Voice: Ah. I see now. So the phone call didn't go as expected?
Weaver: I can't even say that it didn't go as expected. I suck at calling people, and I suck even more at talking to them on the phone. It was like
Weaver: Hey, is Jordan there?Or something like that.
Mr. Reurink: Yeah, hold on.
Jordan: Hello?
Weaver: Hey... it's *Weaver*.
Jordan: Hey.
Weaver: So... I was just wondering if you still wanted to go to a movie on Wednesday...?
Jordan: Um... I won't know whether I can go until my mother gets here.
Weaver: *starts talking at same time as Jordan*
Weaver: Sorry. What time should she be there?
Jordan: *almost at same time again* She should be here soon though.
Weaver: Oh... Okay.
Jordan: *something Weaver doesn't hear*
Weaver: Sorry, pardon me? I have bad hearing... *grins ruefully at herself* And a headache.
Jordan: I said, I guess I'll talk to you later then.
Weaver: Bye...
Weaver: That's about when I started whacking myself. It's just that I'm horrible at phones, impressions, and just plain interacting with people. I have no idea whether he thinks I'm an alcoholic freak sex fiend or whether I should call him again or just pray that he comes online so I don't have to make a fool of myself on the phone again. Or maybe he'll call me. That would be nice. I like getting phone calls, just not sending them. I feel bad because I want to talk to him, but... Arg. I don't know.
Voice: It's amazing how the most put-together, self-assured people can be reduced to such a mass of conflicting emotion, is it not?
Weaver: I know. I hate my life. I like other people's lives. If only because they're not happening to me. I can help others, talk to others, watch others... But when it comes to my own life I'm a mess. Especially where the other gender is concerned. I've had a shower now, and I feel slightly better about it... I figure I'll get dressed reaaally slowly and then figure out what to do next. Capische? Capische.
Voice: You know--
But MistWeaver had already disappeared in a flurry of agitation.
Never Gonna Drink Again, Never Gonna...
Voice: Had a good time last night, I gather?
Weaver: If my hands were shaking any harder, I'd be a living vibrator.
Voice: I'll take that as a yes.
Weaver: Luckily, that's the extent of my hangover. Probably the fact that ever since the first time I got drunk, I've been somewhat careful about drinking tons of water with my alcohol to avoid said hangovers helped.
Voice: So what was the occasion for such indulgence?
Weaver: Well, no occasion really. Kurt and his friend Sandy came to visit from Vancouver, and a certain somebody's goal in life is to initiate me into the dregs of drunkhood and highhood. Obviously, he doesn't realize that I was initiated into said ranks several years ago. Not that I'm complaining. In any case, I have quite a few shots of tequila and 40-proof wine. Feeling no pain, indeed.
Voice: It was probably the tequila that did you in. You know what they say... One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.
Weaver: I wouldn't say I was on the floor. I did, however, have four tequilas. I think. Then I talked to Blair on the phone for a long time.
Voice: Oh? What about?
Weaver: v.v See, I'm a talkative drunk. At the risk of sounding cliche'd, I can control it though. Most people never know that I'm drunk. Years of wall-building and barriers have ensured that. But the desire is always there, and the ability. You see, the wall-building and such not only made it capable for me to keep things inside, it made me incapable of letting some things out. Alcohol helps to remove that particular barrier.
Oh, and on a completely different note, I'm proud of our generation. Kurt doesn't drink, because he doesn't like what it does to him. Rebecca doesn't either, for similar reasons. Although there are of course a lot of people who drink because their friends do it and such, I also know many people of this age like Kurt and Becca who choose not to no matter how many of their friends are doing it. And I respect that. They make me proud.
I don't imbibe or inhale because of anything friends do or say. Let's make that clear right now. I do it because I enjoy it occasionally (not all the time) and because I think it's both good for me (again, occasionally) and it's a learning thing, weird as that sounds.
This particular time, however, I happened to get online and speak to Jordan. Jordan, for those of you who haven't been involved intrinsically in my life, is a guy. More specifically, my brother's friend's brother, if that makes sense. Around my age (a bit younger, actually), and long story made short, the object of my affections. Recently, I found out that the sentiment was returned. Of course, only time will tell what becomes of this, since I suck, period, at relationships and my first and last one previous to this was with a guy who wanted to keep our relationship quiet because he thought his friends would make fun of him for hanging out around me. Me, the stupid idiot that I am, agreed. Even keeping it quiet soon wasn't enough for him, I guess, because he soon started avoiding me and ignoring me until I got the picture.
But he's dead now.
Voice: Sounds like a jerk. There are so many things wrong with that, I'm not even going to start on them.
Weaver: I know, I know. Or rather, I know that now. But my point is, it's even worse now because Jordan is technically my brother's friend, and I'm afraid his brother and my brother are going to mock him. Not only do I not want that, but I wouldn't blame him if he wanted to keep it quiet because of that or even break it off altogether.
Voice: Sounds a lot like the last guy. Are you willing to face that again?
Weaver: Ignoring the fact that Jordan is absolutely nothing like him, it's also a different situation. I knew most of the last dude's friends, believe it or not. And they all (well, most of them) liked me. His embarassment stemmed, I think, from his own problems with me, and had nothing to do with his friends.
But barring the circumstances, much as I like Jordan, I'm not sure I could handle that again. I won't blame him at all (or at least, not much) if he decides he doesn't want anyone to know, but I don't think I could continue with it. I think my brother (who told me directly that if I was going to keep bugging his friend Xtian to come over--Xtian owns one of my favorite movies of all time and I always want him to bring it--then I should just go and ask the guy out because his parents think I'm nuts) will accept it with only minor ribbing, but I have no idea about Aaron, Jordan's bro.
Voice: Sounds like you're thinking too much to me. You should probably just relax, let it flow, and accept that whatever will come, will come. Now what does Jordan have to do with your alcohol last night?
Weaver: Man, I don't want to just let it come, though. I want to see him, experience everything, know for sure. If something happens with this guy, I think it will hurt a hell of a lot more than the last dude. Wait. Alcohol. Right. That's what I was talking about. Yeah, so I did the honorable thing and warned him straight up of my condition. Then told him to take advantage and ask me anything, since I would probably answer honestly and completely (and not remember much of it later). He told me he couldnt' do it unless I did the same for him. Or at least, I think that's what happened, because I remember taking turns. And I also remember being damn proud of that boy. For once he shed his utter niceness and asked real questions, the kind you think about but never actually come close to voicing for fear of getting slapped.
And before you ask, Voice, no I don't care to share. In fact, I think it's time I go downstairs and splash water on my face before finding my glasses (I appear to have lost both pairs last night) and then call him because I remember asking something about a movie on Wednesday. Then, off to bug Kurt and Sandy (or rather, wake them up), and get ready for work.
Weaver fades as she speaks, already losing herself back into the mundane world.
Voice: Hasta luego.
Weaver: If my hands were shaking any harder, I'd be a living vibrator.
Voice: I'll take that as a yes.
Weaver: Luckily, that's the extent of my hangover. Probably the fact that ever since the first time I got drunk, I've been somewhat careful about drinking tons of water with my alcohol to avoid said hangovers helped.
Voice: So what was the occasion for such indulgence?
Weaver: Well, no occasion really. Kurt and his friend Sandy came to visit from Vancouver, and a certain somebody's goal in life is to initiate me into the dregs of drunkhood and highhood. Obviously, he doesn't realize that I was initiated into said ranks several years ago. Not that I'm complaining. In any case, I have quite a few shots of tequila and 40-proof wine. Feeling no pain, indeed.
Voice: It was probably the tequila that did you in. You know what they say... One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.
Weaver: I wouldn't say I was on the floor. I did, however, have four tequilas. I think. Then I talked to Blair on the phone for a long time.
Voice: Oh? What about?
Weaver: v.v See, I'm a talkative drunk. At the risk of sounding cliche'd, I can control it though. Most people never know that I'm drunk. Years of wall-building and barriers have ensured that. But the desire is always there, and the ability. You see, the wall-building and such not only made it capable for me to keep things inside, it made me incapable of letting some things out. Alcohol helps to remove that particular barrier.
Oh, and on a completely different note, I'm proud of our generation. Kurt doesn't drink, because he doesn't like what it does to him. Rebecca doesn't either, for similar reasons. Although there are of course a lot of people who drink because their friends do it and such, I also know many people of this age like Kurt and Becca who choose not to no matter how many of their friends are doing it. And I respect that. They make me proud.
I don't imbibe or inhale because of anything friends do or say. Let's make that clear right now. I do it because I enjoy it occasionally (not all the time) and because I think it's both good for me (again, occasionally) and it's a learning thing, weird as that sounds.
This particular time, however, I happened to get online and speak to Jordan. Jordan, for those of you who haven't been involved intrinsically in my life, is a guy. More specifically, my brother's friend's brother, if that makes sense. Around my age (a bit younger, actually), and long story made short, the object of my affections. Recently, I found out that the sentiment was returned. Of course, only time will tell what becomes of this, since I suck, period, at relationships and my first and last one previous to this was with a guy who wanted to keep our relationship quiet because he thought his friends would make fun of him for hanging out around me. Me, the stupid idiot that I am, agreed. Even keeping it quiet soon wasn't enough for him, I guess, because he soon started avoiding me and ignoring me until I got the picture.
But he's dead now.
Voice: Sounds like a jerk. There are so many things wrong with that, I'm not even going to start on them.
Weaver: I know, I know. Or rather, I know that now. But my point is, it's even worse now because Jordan is technically my brother's friend, and I'm afraid his brother and my brother are going to mock him. Not only do I not want that, but I wouldn't blame him if he wanted to keep it quiet because of that or even break it off altogether.
Voice: Sounds a lot like the last guy. Are you willing to face that again?
Weaver: Ignoring the fact that Jordan is absolutely nothing like him, it's also a different situation. I knew most of the last dude's friends, believe it or not. And they all (well, most of them) liked me. His embarassment stemmed, I think, from his own problems with me, and had nothing to do with his friends.
But barring the circumstances, much as I like Jordan, I'm not sure I could handle that again. I won't blame him at all (or at least, not much) if he decides he doesn't want anyone to know, but I don't think I could continue with it. I think my brother (who told me directly that if I was going to keep bugging his friend Xtian to come over--Xtian owns one of my favorite movies of all time and I always want him to bring it--then I should just go and ask the guy out because his parents think I'm nuts) will accept it with only minor ribbing, but I have no idea about Aaron, Jordan's bro.
Voice: Sounds like you're thinking too much to me. You should probably just relax, let it flow, and accept that whatever will come, will come. Now what does Jordan have to do with your alcohol last night?
Weaver: Man, I don't want to just let it come, though. I want to see him, experience everything, know for sure. If something happens with this guy, I think it will hurt a hell of a lot more than the last dude. Wait. Alcohol. Right. That's what I was talking about. Yeah, so I did the honorable thing and warned him straight up of my condition. Then told him to take advantage and ask me anything, since I would probably answer honestly and completely (and not remember much of it later). He told me he couldnt' do it unless I did the same for him. Or at least, I think that's what happened, because I remember taking turns. And I also remember being damn proud of that boy. For once he shed his utter niceness and asked real questions, the kind you think about but never actually come close to voicing for fear of getting slapped.
And before you ask, Voice, no I don't care to share. In fact, I think it's time I go downstairs and splash water on my face before finding my glasses (I appear to have lost both pairs last night) and then call him because I remember asking something about a movie on Wednesday. Then, off to bug Kurt and Sandy (or rather, wake them up), and get ready for work.
Weaver fades as she speaks, already losing herself back into the mundane world.
Voice: Hasta luego.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Monday, December 12, 2005
Let Me Tell You The Story Of Jienix and Jex...
Out of the silent, swirling, mist comes a voice. In a childish, singsong voice, it begins to recite:
...Let me tell you the story of Jienix and Jex
It has drama and laughter and sorrow and sex
Let us begin with the story of Jienix
A person as lovely and strong as the phoenix
Jienix was laughter, Jienix was light
Her voice was a song and her laughter was bright.
She was well loved and popular and pure
Her present was great, her future assured.
Yet like young women, she had a secret
And she needed only her sister to keep it.
They were as close as close could be
Jienix was the bark, Jex was the tree.
Jex was everything Jienix was not
Rude and uncouth (and taunted a lot).
She was rebellious and malicious and mean
In contempt for authority, she was the Queen
Jex was sorrow, Jex was sass
If you didn't like it, you could kiss her ass
Worst of it all, she could still grin
Not even caring she didn’t fit in
Yet she was the truth behind the facade
That Jex had created and Jienix displayed
Alone they were nothing, together were one
Listen more closely, it’s only begun.
One day Jex was sick, Jienix at school
When a girl made a comment that Jex was a fool
Jienix moved quickly, and when the smoke cleared
That girl had learned why the sisters were feared.
She may have been sweet, she may have been fun
But insults, Jienix tolerated not a single one
And on other occasions, though rarely I admit
She yelled at her friends, and just wouldn’t quit
These were the times her mind would be mixed
Though a glance at her sister and all would be fixed.
Jex would only laugh, and flick her cigarette
She knew that for Jienix, they'd forgive and forget.
The opinion on Jex was near-universal
She was a bad egg, her ideas distasteful
Yet nobody's perfect, not even when they're bad
Once there was someone she didn't make mad
They could even be called friends, some would say
Until one fateful evening with a roll in the hay
Marc was intoxicated, Jex was sober
A good clean break, and it would be over
The experience was better than reported by some
It was pleasure and pain combined into one
She knew that his guilt would cause him to flee
Their relationship damaged irreparably
Jienix had the lecture already prepared
Jex simply retorted "He should never have cared!"
Sometimes they wished they could be less extreme
Jex to be nice, Jienix be mean
But the images they’d created had grown out of hand
And if they got rid of them they’d lose the plan
Because while Jienix was out charming the crowds
Jex would be unnoticed while sneaking around
Trying to find the answer they’d been looking for, for years
Try to sever their roots and erase all the tears
Together the ruse was played out again and again
While together they got closer and closer to the end
For eventually the town would figure it out
What Jienix and Jex were really about...
...Let me tell you the story of Jienix and Jex
It has drama and laughter and sorrow and sex
Let us begin with the story of Jienix
A person as lovely and strong as the phoenix
Jienix was laughter, Jienix was light
Her voice was a song and her laughter was bright.
She was well loved and popular and pure
Her present was great, her future assured.
Yet like young women, she had a secret
And she needed only her sister to keep it.
They were as close as close could be
Jienix was the bark, Jex was the tree.
Jex was everything Jienix was not
Rude and uncouth (and taunted a lot).
She was rebellious and malicious and mean
In contempt for authority, she was the Queen
Jex was sorrow, Jex was sass
If you didn't like it, you could kiss her ass
Worst of it all, she could still grin
Not even caring she didn’t fit in
Yet she was the truth behind the facade
That Jex had created and Jienix displayed
Alone they were nothing, together were one
Listen more closely, it’s only begun.
One day Jex was sick, Jienix at school
When a girl made a comment that Jex was a fool
Jienix moved quickly, and when the smoke cleared
That girl had learned why the sisters were feared.
She may have been sweet, she may have been fun
But insults, Jienix tolerated not a single one
And on other occasions, though rarely I admit
She yelled at her friends, and just wouldn’t quit
These were the times her mind would be mixed
Though a glance at her sister and all would be fixed.
Jex would only laugh, and flick her cigarette
She knew that for Jienix, they'd forgive and forget.
The opinion on Jex was near-universal
She was a bad egg, her ideas distasteful
Yet nobody's perfect, not even when they're bad
Once there was someone she didn't make mad
They could even be called friends, some would say
Until one fateful evening with a roll in the hay
Marc was intoxicated, Jex was sober
A good clean break, and it would be over
The experience was better than reported by some
It was pleasure and pain combined into one
She knew that his guilt would cause him to flee
Their relationship damaged irreparably
Jienix had the lecture already prepared
Jex simply retorted "He should never have cared!"
Sometimes they wished they could be less extreme
Jex to be nice, Jienix be mean
But the images they’d created had grown out of hand
And if they got rid of them they’d lose the plan
Because while Jienix was out charming the crowds
Jex would be unnoticed while sneaking around
Trying to find the answer they’d been looking for, for years
Try to sever their roots and erase all the tears
Together the ruse was played out again and again
While together they got closer and closer to the end
For eventually the town would figure it out
What Jienix and Jex were really about...
Monday, December 05, 2005
Those Damned Tears
MistWeaver: Who's your favorite pothead?
Voice: Tsk, tsk. Been bad, have we?
Weaver: No, actually. Just sad. Of course, when I cry I have the handy talent of making my eyes go completely bloodshot. Not even bloodshot. Pink. Fully and completely. And the rest of my face looks like crap, too. I'm not one of those attractive cryers who look all dramatic and beautiful. I just look like a drowned duck.
Voice: While I find all of this absolutely fascinating, it does bring to mind a more pressing question. Why have you been crying?
Weaver: And that, fair lady (or man, or whatever you are), is the heart of the matter. Crying. I've been doing way too much of it over the past few days. And try as I might, I can't stop.
Voice: You still haven't answered the question. Why have you been crying?
Weaver: A variety of reasons. The most pressing being that I've been so tired, every little thing makes me cry. Even when I don't want to. On Saturday, it was the fight I got into with Mama and Brian. On Sunday, it was the stupid email Mama sent me regarding the fight I got into with her and Brian. Today, it was Deb in the cafeteria lecturing us on how we need to be a team and how we don't pull our weight, and how... Ugh. Just... everything. And the entire time, I was thinking about how I really wanted to quit and that I'd been considering it for a while, but that I couldn't because throughout it all Deb made it clear that they needed me.
Voice: Why did you fight with Thelia and Brian?
Weaver: The same as always. About how we need to be a team, and how I don't pull my weight... Not to mention how I force them to drop everything and drive me everywhere (namely work), and how I work too much and it's costing Mama money and ... oh look. There I go again, almost. No respite from the stupid tears, not even in the middle of the school library. I guess it's a good thing that I didn't go to math.
Voice: Is that where you're supposed to be right now? Math?
Weaver: Yup. I've been stopping myself all month from skipping, telling myself that I need math, that missing it is a bad idea. I gave up today. Screw Math. Screw stupid pipsqueak Carder and his stupid discrimination. The best thing to do is study it myself and show up for test days. I almost wish that I would get caught skipping, for once. I can identify with certain characters from certain books... That reckless feeling where you want to get caught so you can yell to the world how you really feel.
Voice: And this is your way of yelling at the world. All those who care to read, step right up! Take a computer and boot 'er up.
Weaver: When you put it that way... I guess this is my way of yelling at the world. Teen Angst R Us. Although I feel closer to 70 than to a teen, at the moment.
Weaver: Do you know who happened to come in while I was trying to clean myself up in the bathroom before coming here?
Voice: If I knew, you wouldn't be asking.
Weaver: It was KD. Yes, KD. The one that I never particularly liked, and thought to be shallow and inconsiderate. I've never hidden my opinion of her, either. But when she walked in, inconspicuous cryer that I am, she took one look and asked me what was wrong. Gave me a hug, too.
Voice: Has your opinion changed of her?
Weaver: To be honest, not really. She's still pretty shallow and mean. But at the same time, even the shallowest person has a heart. I don't know where I'm going with this.
Voice: Maybe towards the idea that she's a tolerable person?
Weaver: Yeah, I guess. And I'm probably going to go watch her Drama class second period since I think that I've changed my mind about going to math at all. And I should probably reread my reply to my mother's email. I was so tired, and crying so hard, that I have barely any recollection of what I wrote. I have a vague memory of thinking it was really bitter-sounding. Am I right? I can't remember. Maybe I am just a selfish bitch. Bleah.
Oh, and a note: I'm still trying to figure out whether I miss Ryan. I haven't really talked to him in like two weeks. More if you count talking to him sober. I don't go to Youth anymore. I think our last meaningful conversation was when I told him that. I'm trying to figure out whether to invite him to the Dance next week. We had agreed that if we had one with guests, he'd come and we'd have a blast. Then again, I'm not even sure I can go. But it's formal! And I've wanted to go to a formal dance forever...
--
Voice: Tsk, tsk. Been bad, have we?
Weaver: No, actually. Just sad. Of course, when I cry I have the handy talent of making my eyes go completely bloodshot. Not even bloodshot. Pink. Fully and completely. And the rest of my face looks like crap, too. I'm not one of those attractive cryers who look all dramatic and beautiful. I just look like a drowned duck.
Voice: While I find all of this absolutely fascinating, it does bring to mind a more pressing question. Why have you been crying?
Weaver: And that, fair lady (or man, or whatever you are), is the heart of the matter. Crying. I've been doing way too much of it over the past few days. And try as I might, I can't stop.
Voice: You still haven't answered the question. Why have you been crying?
Weaver: A variety of reasons. The most pressing being that I've been so tired, every little thing makes me cry. Even when I don't want to. On Saturday, it was the fight I got into with Mama and Brian. On Sunday, it was the stupid email Mama sent me regarding the fight I got into with her and Brian. Today, it was Deb in the cafeteria lecturing us on how we need to be a team and how we don't pull our weight, and how... Ugh. Just... everything. And the entire time, I was thinking about how I really wanted to quit and that I'd been considering it for a while, but that I couldn't because throughout it all Deb made it clear that they needed me.
Voice: Why did you fight with Thelia and Brian?
Weaver: The same as always. About how we need to be a team, and how I don't pull my weight... Not to mention how I force them to drop everything and drive me everywhere (namely work), and how I work too much and it's costing Mama money and ... oh look. There I go again, almost. No respite from the stupid tears, not even in the middle of the school library. I guess it's a good thing that I didn't go to math.
Voice: Is that where you're supposed to be right now? Math?
Weaver: Yup. I've been stopping myself all month from skipping, telling myself that I need math, that missing it is a bad idea. I gave up today. Screw Math. Screw stupid pipsqueak Carder and his stupid discrimination. The best thing to do is study it myself and show up for test days. I almost wish that I would get caught skipping, for once. I can identify with certain characters from certain books... That reckless feeling where you want to get caught so you can yell to the world how you really feel.
Voice: And this is your way of yelling at the world. All those who care to read, step right up! Take a computer and boot 'er up.
Weaver: When you put it that way... I guess this is my way of yelling at the world. Teen Angst R Us. Although I feel closer to 70 than to a teen, at the moment.
Weaver: Do you know who happened to come in while I was trying to clean myself up in the bathroom before coming here?
Voice: If I knew, you wouldn't be asking.
Weaver: It was KD. Yes, KD. The one that I never particularly liked, and thought to be shallow and inconsiderate. I've never hidden my opinion of her, either. But when she walked in, inconspicuous cryer that I am, she took one look and asked me what was wrong. Gave me a hug, too.
Voice: Has your opinion changed of her?
Weaver: To be honest, not really. She's still pretty shallow and mean. But at the same time, even the shallowest person has a heart. I don't know where I'm going with this.
Voice: Maybe towards the idea that she's a tolerable person?
Weaver: Yeah, I guess. And I'm probably going to go watch her Drama class second period since I think that I've changed my mind about going to math at all. And I should probably reread my reply to my mother's email. I was so tired, and crying so hard, that I have barely any recollection of what I wrote. I have a vague memory of thinking it was really bitter-sounding. Am I right? I can't remember. Maybe I am just a selfish bitch. Bleah.
Oh, and a note: I'm still trying to figure out whether I miss Ryan. I haven't really talked to him in like two weeks. More if you count talking to him sober. I don't go to Youth anymore. I think our last meaningful conversation was when I told him that. I'm trying to figure out whether to invite him to the Dance next week. We had agreed that if we had one with guests, he'd come and we'd have a blast. Then again, I'm not even sure I can go. But it's formal! And I've wanted to go to a formal dance forever...
--
Monday, November 07, 2005
Rise and Fall and Rise Again
Voice: You look worn out. Have y ou come for some peace and rest?
Weaver: I don't have time for peace and rest. I know I look worn out, but it's everything that's been crushing down on me that causes it.
Voice: Interesting choice of words. Crushed? What exactly is going on in your life?
Weaver: Part of it is good: I have a job.
Voice: I know that you've wanted one for a while now; that's good, then. Where are you working?
Weaver: Superstore. Cashier. 8.25$/hour.
Voice: Sounds reasonable. Better than minimum wage at a fast food place, no?
Weaver: Oh, it's not the job that's getting me down. I love the work. It's memory, repetition, greetings... all stuff that I get off on.
Voice: There's a 'but' in that statement, isn't there?
Weaver: Indeed, there is. I have to tell Brian that I start work fifteen to thirty minutes early in order to get there on time, and I usually have to wait a good half hour to fortyfive minutes after I'm finished to get picked up, regardless of what time I tell him I'm finished. He drives like a maniac, and I feel anything but safe in the car. But it's my only recourse barring my father, and that's an option I won't take no matter what.
Voice: Do you really hate your father that much?
Weaver: Yes.
Voice: That's direct.
Weaver: Would you have me dance around the subject the way that he does? He's fucked with my life, my brother's life, and my mother's life most of all. He can rot.
Voice: You know, in a few years you'll--
MistWeaver: Stop right there. I've heard that I'll eventually be great friends with him from everybody on the face of the earth, along with "you know, Weaver... your parents' divorce doesn't have anything to do with you..." FUCK! I don't think I'm to blame for my parents' divorce. I don't give a shit if I'll love my father in the future: I despise the ground he walks on right now. It shows something about my mother's character if she's one of those people telling me to be nice to my father.
Voice: I believe you've mentioned that already. Care to elaborate?
Weaver: No. Screw off.
Voice: If that's what you want, I'll leave you to the mist.
Weaver: No! I'm sorry. I'm alienating everybody. I guess it's a sign of how bad I'm doing if I'm snapping at a voice in my own head. Here, let me give you an example of what my life is like.
The mist thickens, closes in around her, completely opaque.
An image appears in the mist. Weaver, her hair glowing white in the semi-darkness of a bedroom, sleeping. All is silent. All of a sudden, music starts blaring from a stereo and she jumps up, eyes wide, hops over the back of the couch she's sleeping on, and turns down the volume. She blindly stumbles into the shower, looking too exhausted to be alive.
The scene cuts to her in an empty kitchen. She is frantically searching thorugh an agenda, realizing that she has a test that day, and that she has to memorize quite a bit of text from Shakespeare. Wearily, she flips through the book page by page, looking for suitable passages to memorize.
The scene cuts again to her on the bus, staring at the book MacBeth, writing out feverishly lines over and over again. As the bus pulls into the school, she looks up in surprise. As she moves to shove her stuff in her bag, she catches a glimpse of a paper: one of the study guides, the one that dictates the parameters for the lines she has to find and memorize. It's thick, but she takes a moment to flip through it, remembering that she's not allowed to pick any of the lines that are demonstrated in it. Of course, that's easier said than done, since there are at least twenty different passages quoted in the study guide. Her eyes catch on one, a longer one that shows the motif of ill-fitting clothes. Her eyes move frantically in disbelief as she realizes that this is the same quote that she chose to memorize after combing the book with a fine-toothed comb for one that wasn't in the guide. Her shoulders slump dejectedly, and she shoves the rest of her books in the bag.
A bell tolls, like that of the school bell, and the scene fades, returns to the mist. It clears, and there is a brief glimpse of the true MistWeaver, before she shakes her head sadly and begins to fade from the misty place.
MistWeaver: Back to the real world again.
Weaver: I don't have time for peace and rest. I know I look worn out, but it's everything that's been crushing down on me that causes it.
Voice: Interesting choice of words. Crushed? What exactly is going on in your life?
Weaver: Part of it is good: I have a job.
Voice: I know that you've wanted one for a while now; that's good, then. Where are you working?
Weaver: Superstore. Cashier. 8.25$/hour.
Voice: Sounds reasonable. Better than minimum wage at a fast food place, no?
Weaver: Oh, it's not the job that's getting me down. I love the work. It's memory, repetition, greetings... all stuff that I get off on.
Voice: There's a 'but' in that statement, isn't there?
Weaver: Indeed, there is. I have to tell Brian that I start work fifteen to thirty minutes early in order to get there on time, and I usually have to wait a good half hour to fortyfive minutes after I'm finished to get picked up, regardless of what time I tell him I'm finished. He drives like a maniac, and I feel anything but safe in the car. But it's my only recourse barring my father, and that's an option I won't take no matter what.
Voice: Do you really hate your father that much?
Weaver: Yes.
Voice: That's direct.
Weaver: Would you have me dance around the subject the way that he does? He's fucked with my life, my brother's life, and my mother's life most of all. He can rot.
Voice: You know, in a few years you'll--
MistWeaver: Stop right there. I've heard that I'll eventually be great friends with him from everybody on the face of the earth, along with "you know, Weaver... your parents' divorce doesn't have anything to do with you..." FUCK! I don't think I'm to blame for my parents' divorce. I don't give a shit if I'll love my father in the future: I despise the ground he walks on right now. It shows something about my mother's character if she's one of those people telling me to be nice to my father.
Voice: I believe you've mentioned that already. Care to elaborate?
Weaver: No. Screw off.
Voice: If that's what you want, I'll leave you to the mist.
Weaver: No! I'm sorry. I'm alienating everybody. I guess it's a sign of how bad I'm doing if I'm snapping at a voice in my own head. Here, let me give you an example of what my life is like.
The mist thickens, closes in around her, completely opaque.
An image appears in the mist. Weaver, her hair glowing white in the semi-darkness of a bedroom, sleeping. All is silent. All of a sudden, music starts blaring from a stereo and she jumps up, eyes wide, hops over the back of the couch she's sleeping on, and turns down the volume. She blindly stumbles into the shower, looking too exhausted to be alive.
The scene cuts to her in an empty kitchen. She is frantically searching thorugh an agenda, realizing that she has a test that day, and that she has to memorize quite a bit of text from Shakespeare. Wearily, she flips through the book page by page, looking for suitable passages to memorize.
The scene cuts again to her on the bus, staring at the book MacBeth, writing out feverishly lines over and over again. As the bus pulls into the school, she looks up in surprise. As she moves to shove her stuff in her bag, she catches a glimpse of a paper: one of the study guides, the one that dictates the parameters for the lines she has to find and memorize. It's thick, but she takes a moment to flip through it, remembering that she's not allowed to pick any of the lines that are demonstrated in it. Of course, that's easier said than done, since there are at least twenty different passages quoted in the study guide. Her eyes catch on one, a longer one that shows the motif of ill-fitting clothes. Her eyes move frantically in disbelief as she realizes that this is the same quote that she chose to memorize after combing the book with a fine-toothed comb for one that wasn't in the guide. Her shoulders slump dejectedly, and she shoves the rest of her books in the bag.
A bell tolls, like that of the school bell, and the scene fades, returns to the mist. It clears, and there is a brief glimpse of the true MistWeaver, before she shakes her head sadly and begins to fade from the misty place.
MistWeaver: Back to the real world again.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Ahhh!!!
Weaver:Oh my god! Oh my god!
Voice: What? What's going on?
Weaver: NaNoWriMo starts in 8 minutes!
Voice: What?
Weaver: Can't talk! Must prepare! Bye!
Voice: What? What's going on?
Weaver: NaNoWriMo starts in 8 minutes!
Voice: What?
Weaver: Can't talk! Must prepare! Bye!
Sunday, October 02, 2005
The Over-Dramatization of Just Like Heaven
MistWeaver: I suppose my father does have his uses.
Voice: What do you mean?
Weaver: I mean that I just saw a great movie with a great friend and may be going to Montreal at the end of the month, all because he's in suck-up mode.
Voice: I see you've softened somewhat towards him.
Weaver snorts.
Weaver: Softened, my ass. If he thinks he can buy my love, he's sorely mistaken. On the other hand, I think that every dollar spent is a little bit of retribution for everything he's taking away from my mother. But that's not what I came to talk about.
Voice: What did you come to talk about, then?
Weaver: I came to talk about the movie I saw. Just Like Heaven, with Reese Witherspoon.
Voice: Considering your earlier comment, I assume it was good.
Weaver: It was more than good. It was excellent. Amusing and supremely conductive to a case of the warm fuzzies. Even the dude from Napoleon Dynamite had a good role, much as I disliked that movie.
Voice: I'm guessing that you're going to expand on your review.
Weaver: Yes, I am. Now would probably be a good time to warn for...
SPOILERS!!!!!
Weaver: Just so that I can talk all that I want with a clean conscience.
You see, there are just some movies (and books) in this world tha tmake me feel good. Not just good, but great. They make you want to squeak and squeeze the book (or yourself, in the case of a movie tightly and wish you could share in the feelings. Usually this is when there's love involved, and it's believable, just for a second, that happily ever after does really happen.
Voice: Even when the said person is like you, and can predict the supposed 'plot twists' and surprises?
MistWeaver: Especially when the person is like me and can predict everything going to happen. It's like you know it's going to happen and that just makes it all the sweeter when it does. It feels like they try so hard to make things unpredictable, give things unhappy endings, that sometimes you can forget just how nice it is to see other people happy, in love.
In JLH, 'twasn't easy, the ending. Everything wasn't perfect. I predicted that he'd build the garden for her on the roof. I wasn't sure if she would remember him, or if they would have to start over as real people instead of the circumstances that were thrown at them.
I guess the story all comes back to balance. They were destined to meet, and that fate was interrupted. Thus, the world unbalanced itself and had to regain that balance in some way. That's why only he could see her, feel her. She wasn't dead, therefore she wasn't a ghost and semi-tangible to all. The little imbalance caused by her accident made her semi-tangible only to him, because until they righted things by meeting and falling in love, that little imbalance would remain and probably grow.
Voice: I believe I speak for many when I note the insensibility of that which you just said.
MistWeaver: That's okay. I understood it and that's all that really matters.
MistWeaver sighs.
Weaver: Some things just hit me hard in that movie though, as I'm sure they were supposed to. For instance, when she can't remember him after she wakes up. That broke my heart almost as badly as it broke his. I get all worked up just thinking about it. He went through so much to save her life, and after everything he did, all the research he did to bring back her memory, all the stuff they did for each other...
HE FREAKING FAILED!!!!!
Through a freaking accident, her breathing tube got freaking cut off and she freaking DIED!!!!!
And then...
MistWeaver sighs again, tiredly.
Voice: Needing sleep?
Weaver: I need to talk about this more. Where was I? Oh, yes. Screaming out in indignation and fury over the injustice of it all.
Anyway. He fails. She fades. He cries--well, I can't remember if he really does but I sure as hell did--and leans in to kiss her comatose lips. Holy shit! I think. Can't she feel what he does to her real body? Indeed she must, because as she fades from view, her eyes widen and her hands fly wonderingly up to her lips.
Who else was betting she was a virgin?
Fuck yeah, I was. No pun intended.
Now, this must be the final connection needed to set things straight, because she comes alive! Yes, that's it. Spirit reconnects with body. She wakes up.
Voice: I'm sure that at this point, others are complaining about the corniness and predictability of it all.
Weaver: Be quiet, you. Yes, it's predictable. Yes, it's corny. But do I care?
Fuck no!
But then she doesn't remember him. After all of that, SHE REMEMBERS NOTHING!!!
That alone is enough to send me back to tears. So sue me. I'm in an emotional mood.
He realizes this, and stumbles back in shock. Blinded by tears, I'm sure, he pushes past the security guards and run for his life.
Sorry about the over-dramatization of it all. But that made me so sad...
I get these emotional moods sometimes. I just crave a happily-ever-after story to make me happy, to let me drop the cynicality and sarcasm that make up a lot of my existence and dream about one day finding my own happily-ever-after.
Voice: Do you think that you'll find it?
MistWeaver: No.
Voice: Then why imagine it?
Weaver: Because imagining is what I do. Sometimes these kinds of imaginings depress me, make me long for what I can't have. But sometimes, I can almost taste it. Besides, there's always that tiny little cursed piece of hope that is present in all I do.
Voice: Would that tiny little cursed piece of hope perhaps be the reason that you imagine?
Weaver: Exactly. It's the reason that whenever I fall for someone, I fall hard and long. There's always the chance that they'll like me back, way after that hope should have died (or been squashed out). Like the guy I will almost admit to liking. He has a girlfriend, even. And hates me, kinda. Like, what the fuck? Who in their right mind would persist under those conditions? Never making a move because she's too fucking shy, always just talking and listening and wondering. Hoping. And that's not even to speak of the other one...
Hell, if it weren't for the fact that nobody reads this, I wouldn't be admitting this right now.
Voice: Everyone has their weaknesses and strengths. This is probably both for you. You're loyal. That's a rare and beautiful thing. Being too shy to ask anyone out... Maybe you'll grow out of it. Maybe one day it won't matter. I know that you think these things, and they are a part of that little kernel of hope. Just remember that que será, será. Whatever will be, will be.
There's a moment of thoughtful pause where the mist swirls around Weaver's feet and she comtemplates this, nodding absently.
Weaver: I think that I've just been a recipient of one of your rare moments of advice. Thank you.
A faint tugging pulls at Weaver's grey skirt. All of a sudden there is a lot more mist, and Weaver looks away into the distance towards the source.
Voice: I think that your dreams are calling you again.
MistWeaver nods and begins to walk away, fading bit by bit as she does.
Weaver: Good night.
Voice: What do you mean?
Weaver: I mean that I just saw a great movie with a great friend and may be going to Montreal at the end of the month, all because he's in suck-up mode.
Voice: I see you've softened somewhat towards him.
Weaver snorts.
Weaver: Softened, my ass. If he thinks he can buy my love, he's sorely mistaken. On the other hand, I think that every dollar spent is a little bit of retribution for everything he's taking away from my mother. But that's not what I came to talk about.
Voice: What did you come to talk about, then?
Weaver: I came to talk about the movie I saw. Just Like Heaven, with Reese Witherspoon.
Voice: Considering your earlier comment, I assume it was good.
Weaver: It was more than good. It was excellent. Amusing and supremely conductive to a case of the warm fuzzies. Even the dude from Napoleon Dynamite had a good role, much as I disliked that movie.
Voice: I'm guessing that you're going to expand on your review.
Weaver: Yes, I am. Now would probably be a good time to warn for...
SPOILERS!!!!!
Weaver: Just so that I can talk all that I want with a clean conscience.
You see, there are just some movies (and books) in this world tha tmake me feel good. Not just good, but great. They make you want to squeak and squeeze the book (or yourself, in the case of a movie tightly and wish you could share in the feelings. Usually this is when there's love involved, and it's believable, just for a second, that happily ever after does really happen.
Voice: Even when the said person is like you, and can predict the supposed 'plot twists' and surprises?
MistWeaver: Especially when the person is like me and can predict everything going to happen. It's like you know it's going to happen and that just makes it all the sweeter when it does. It feels like they try so hard to make things unpredictable, give things unhappy endings, that sometimes you can forget just how nice it is to see other people happy, in love.
In JLH, 'twasn't easy, the ending. Everything wasn't perfect. I predicted that he'd build the garden for her on the roof. I wasn't sure if she would remember him, or if they would have to start over as real people instead of the circumstances that were thrown at them.
I guess the story all comes back to balance. They were destined to meet, and that fate was interrupted. Thus, the world unbalanced itself and had to regain that balance in some way. That's why only he could see her, feel her. She wasn't dead, therefore she wasn't a ghost and semi-tangible to all. The little imbalance caused by her accident made her semi-tangible only to him, because until they righted things by meeting and falling in love, that little imbalance would remain and probably grow.
Voice: I believe I speak for many when I note the insensibility of that which you just said.
MistWeaver: That's okay. I understood it and that's all that really matters.
MistWeaver sighs.
Weaver: Some things just hit me hard in that movie though, as I'm sure they were supposed to. For instance, when she can't remember him after she wakes up. That broke my heart almost as badly as it broke his. I get all worked up just thinking about it. He went through so much to save her life, and after everything he did, all the research he did to bring back her memory, all the stuff they did for each other...
HE FREAKING FAILED!!!!!
Through a freaking accident, her breathing tube got freaking cut off and she freaking DIED!!!!!
And then...
MistWeaver sighs again, tiredly.
Voice: Needing sleep?
Weaver: I need to talk about this more. Where was I? Oh, yes. Screaming out in indignation and fury over the injustice of it all.
Anyway. He fails. She fades. He cries--well, I can't remember if he really does but I sure as hell did--and leans in to kiss her comatose lips. Holy shit! I think. Can't she feel what he does to her real body? Indeed she must, because as she fades from view, her eyes widen and her hands fly wonderingly up to her lips.
Who else was betting she was a virgin?
Fuck yeah, I was. No pun intended.
Now, this must be the final connection needed to set things straight, because she comes alive! Yes, that's it. Spirit reconnects with body. She wakes up.
Voice: I'm sure that at this point, others are complaining about the corniness and predictability of it all.
Weaver: Be quiet, you. Yes, it's predictable. Yes, it's corny. But do I care?
Fuck no!
But then she doesn't remember him. After all of that, SHE REMEMBERS NOTHING!!!
That alone is enough to send me back to tears. So sue me. I'm in an emotional mood.
He realizes this, and stumbles back in shock. Blinded by tears, I'm sure, he pushes past the security guards and run for his life.
Sorry about the over-dramatization of it all. But that made me so sad...
I get these emotional moods sometimes. I just crave a happily-ever-after story to make me happy, to let me drop the cynicality and sarcasm that make up a lot of my existence and dream about one day finding my own happily-ever-after.
Voice: Do you think that you'll find it?
MistWeaver: No.
Voice: Then why imagine it?
Weaver: Because imagining is what I do. Sometimes these kinds of imaginings depress me, make me long for what I can't have. But sometimes, I can almost taste it. Besides, there's always that tiny little cursed piece of hope that is present in all I do.
Voice: Would that tiny little cursed piece of hope perhaps be the reason that you imagine?
Weaver: Exactly. It's the reason that whenever I fall for someone, I fall hard and long. There's always the chance that they'll like me back, way after that hope should have died (or been squashed out). Like the guy I will almost admit to liking. He has a girlfriend, even. And hates me, kinda. Like, what the fuck? Who in their right mind would persist under those conditions? Never making a move because she's too fucking shy, always just talking and listening and wondering. Hoping. And that's not even to speak of the other one...
Hell, if it weren't for the fact that nobody reads this, I wouldn't be admitting this right now.
Voice: Everyone has their weaknesses and strengths. This is probably both for you. You're loyal. That's a rare and beautiful thing. Being too shy to ask anyone out... Maybe you'll grow out of it. Maybe one day it won't matter. I know that you think these things, and they are a part of that little kernel of hope. Just remember that que será, será. Whatever will be, will be.
There's a moment of thoughtful pause where the mist swirls around Weaver's feet and she comtemplates this, nodding absently.
Weaver: I think that I've just been a recipient of one of your rare moments of advice. Thank you.
A faint tugging pulls at Weaver's grey skirt. All of a sudden there is a lot more mist, and Weaver looks away into the distance towards the source.
Voice: I think that your dreams are calling you again.
MistWeaver nods and begins to walk away, fading bit by bit as she does.
Weaver: Good night.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Fil.
MistWeaver: Every time I appear here lately it's been mistier and mistier.
Voice: That's because lately you've been bringing your material world more and more into focus, and the mist is trying to reject it.
MistWeaver: That would explain a lot. Every time I've disappeared into here, I've nearly done exactly that: disappeared.
Voice: But for some reason, you're here now, successfully.
Weaver: I know why that is.
Voice: Why?
Weaver: It's because of him. Fil.
Voice: A new paramour?
Weaver: My father.
Voice: Oh.
Weaver: And to a lesser degree, my mother. Oh, how I love my mother. She's strong, and she's holding on tight. But she doesn't recognize the mist for what it is. She doesn't embrace it.
Voice: Many people don't recognize the mist. Why don't you tell me your story?
MistWeaver nods and sits down on the stone obelisk-chair that appears.
Weaver: I have only half an hour, but I'll tell as much as I can.
You see, my parents are getting Le Divorce. My mother, as I mentioned, is strong and beautiful and great. My father is only nice on the outside. He's a compulsive liar, remembers next to nothings, and lives in his own world. And his world is based on what's supposed to be. Who determines that? In his mind, society does.
He's been abusing my mother for years. Not physically, but emotionally and mentally. He never believes anything she says until it's been repeated for him by another source outside his family. He's had her second-guessing every move she amkes, everything she does, since I was born, or even before. Although he has no real friends, my mother had many of them, and because they would do anything for her and wouldn't let her put up with his crap, he moved her all the way across the country to a place where, three years later, she still has no support base.
He's a subtle man, a business man. Almost anybody who hasn't lived with him will say that he's a decent, good man. When he lies, he twists his words until it's my mother's fault, or anybody else's fault. He's suave, handsome.
But everything about him is so wrong!
My mother made him a labradorite pendant. Labradorite is a beautiful glowing stone that absorbs negativity.
It turned black on his neck.
The stone slowly turned blacker and blacker, lost its fire, and charred. Not from any heat but that of his body. Labradorite has a 6.5 hardness. This is no soft little stone.
What more proof is needed? He said it was the negative energy between him and my mother, but my mother has had a large labradorite pendant for years, and it still glows bright gold on her neck with its inner fire.
A few months back, they finally agreed to get a divorce. My mother wanted it to be the happiest divorce in history. She wanted to throw a divorce party. She didn't see why there had to be any hard feelings. They'd been married for 23 years, after all.
My father wants revenge. He wants to clear her out of everything she has, including my brother and I and all of her friends. A few weeks ago when she asked him to move out and threatened to put his stuff in the garage for him to pick up, he called the cops on her. He told them that she had threatened him with a knife and he feared for his life. When she heard of this and called him, he told her he'd make the charge go away as long as she agreed not to touch his stuff.
She hadn't been going to. My mother isn't vindictive. He filed charges anyway. The cops dismissed them. Apparently random accusations happen a lot with divorce cases.
MistWeaver sighs, and her seat charges from hard stone to cool mist, wrapping tendrils around her. A song by Hungry Lucy starts to play softly in the background.
MistWeaver: That's the background. But since my brother and I are old enough to have the choice of who to live with, he has to woo us over. Let's not forget the fact that a good father-child relationship is what all the self-help books and all of society say is needed!
In short, I'm not cooperating with his plan.
My time is almost up, so I'll try to wrap up my story.
His latest thing is emails. He's been emailing me, asking me what we can do to spend more time together, asking me to make a go at having a great relationship with me, telling me he loves me.
Voice: Sounds sincere.
Weaver: That's the problem. He always sounds sincere. He sounds sincere when he tells my mother that he's going to take her kids away from her. He sounds sincere when he tells people that my mother is crazy. He sounds so sincere that a great many of them believe him.
He doesn't make me angry. He makes my skin crawl.
As she speaks, the mist stirs, as if swirled round by a giant invisible hand.
MistWeaver stirs.
MistWeaver: I have to go now. School awaits. And another email awaits from him too, I'm sure. Thank God he's away until Thursday.
Voice: That's because lately you've been bringing your material world more and more into focus, and the mist is trying to reject it.
MistWeaver: That would explain a lot. Every time I've disappeared into here, I've nearly done exactly that: disappeared.
Voice: But for some reason, you're here now, successfully.
Weaver: I know why that is.
Voice: Why?
Weaver: It's because of him. Fil.
Voice: A new paramour?
Weaver: My father.
Voice: Oh.
Weaver: And to a lesser degree, my mother. Oh, how I love my mother. She's strong, and she's holding on tight. But she doesn't recognize the mist for what it is. She doesn't embrace it.
Voice: Many people don't recognize the mist. Why don't you tell me your story?
MistWeaver nods and sits down on the stone obelisk-chair that appears.
Weaver: I have only half an hour, but I'll tell as much as I can.
You see, my parents are getting Le Divorce. My mother, as I mentioned, is strong and beautiful and great. My father is only nice on the outside. He's a compulsive liar, remembers next to nothings, and lives in his own world. And his world is based on what's supposed to be. Who determines that? In his mind, society does.
He's been abusing my mother for years. Not physically, but emotionally and mentally. He never believes anything she says until it's been repeated for him by another source outside his family. He's had her second-guessing every move she amkes, everything she does, since I was born, or even before. Although he has no real friends, my mother had many of them, and because they would do anything for her and wouldn't let her put up with his crap, he moved her all the way across the country to a place where, three years later, she still has no support base.
He's a subtle man, a business man. Almost anybody who hasn't lived with him will say that he's a decent, good man. When he lies, he twists his words until it's my mother's fault, or anybody else's fault. He's suave, handsome.
But everything about him is so wrong!
My mother made him a labradorite pendant. Labradorite is a beautiful glowing stone that absorbs negativity.
It turned black on his neck.
The stone slowly turned blacker and blacker, lost its fire, and charred. Not from any heat but that of his body. Labradorite has a 6.5 hardness. This is no soft little stone.
What more proof is needed? He said it was the negative energy between him and my mother, but my mother has had a large labradorite pendant for years, and it still glows bright gold on her neck with its inner fire.
A few months back, they finally agreed to get a divorce. My mother wanted it to be the happiest divorce in history. She wanted to throw a divorce party. She didn't see why there had to be any hard feelings. They'd been married for 23 years, after all.
My father wants revenge. He wants to clear her out of everything she has, including my brother and I and all of her friends. A few weeks ago when she asked him to move out and threatened to put his stuff in the garage for him to pick up, he called the cops on her. He told them that she had threatened him with a knife and he feared for his life. When she heard of this and called him, he told her he'd make the charge go away as long as she agreed not to touch his stuff.
She hadn't been going to. My mother isn't vindictive. He filed charges anyway. The cops dismissed them. Apparently random accusations happen a lot with divorce cases.
MistWeaver sighs, and her seat charges from hard stone to cool mist, wrapping tendrils around her. A song by Hungry Lucy starts to play softly in the background.
MistWeaver: That's the background. But since my brother and I are old enough to have the choice of who to live with, he has to woo us over. Let's not forget the fact that a good father-child relationship is what all the self-help books and all of society say is needed!
In short, I'm not cooperating with his plan.
My time is almost up, so I'll try to wrap up my story.
His latest thing is emails. He's been emailing me, asking me what we can do to spend more time together, asking me to make a go at having a great relationship with me, telling me he loves me.
Voice: Sounds sincere.
Weaver: That's the problem. He always sounds sincere. He sounds sincere when he tells my mother that he's going to take her kids away from her. He sounds sincere when he tells people that my mother is crazy. He sounds so sincere that a great many of them believe him.
He doesn't make me angry. He makes my skin crawl.
As she speaks, the mist stirs, as if swirled round by a giant invisible hand.
MistWeaver stirs.
MistWeaver: I have to go now. School awaits. And another email awaits from him too, I'm sure. Thank God he's away until Thursday.
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