The only thing I can say about yesterday is that it was, at least, productive. I got a superhuman amount of my buggy tasks accomplished, and that always puts me in a better frame of mind. The problem with working for only one day each week is that it is very difficult to get that week's worth of necessary functions resolved satisfactorily, and once I return the next week, there is an even larger amount of things required of me. The past two weeks I've been working extra, unpaid, hours, on my own time, just so I can feel like I've been accomplishing something.

It's vital for me to feel important. I think that is probably the moral of all of this.

When I feel like I don't really matter, if I do anything or don't, if I stay alive or don't, my self-esteem crumbles. Perhaps it is my utter lack of faith in religion that requires me to harvest my entire sense of purpose and redemption from the rich fields of my working/ schooling/ socializing, but whatever the cause, I need a rather significant degree of reinforcement from the outside world before I can summon the will to like myself. So, anyway, I modified a couple of HTML pages in the morning, created a few new ones, and messed with a table that wouldn't fit into my room if it were actually constructed of anything more than HTML tags, and juggled an annoyingly complicated number of levels so that a scientist could have an invisible column lining up common names of various species of ticks along with the bulleted list of genera. But the disturbance that was caused by my finishing of these tasks, along with the first half of the afternoon's mucking with images and hyperlinks and printouts, reassured me that my completion was premature, and I could once again feel like the obseqious wunderkind that my employers assure me would be annoying and dangerous if they weren't confident that I was not at all attempting to steal their jobs out from underneath them.

I didn't get home until about three hours ago, which also makes me feel good, because it meant that I had something swell going on with my Friday night, instead of staying home and crying into my pillows (which is always an acceptable alternative to having fun, of course), or masturbating or watching TV, or whatever I did when I was fifteen, and lonelier. I do, however, apologize for not writing sooner. I know it's vital that I whine about something each day, and now that I'm at least talking to you, all I'm doing is bragging. So I'll stop that now. Rest assured, I spent a good hour upstairs with Caira and Mefisto, and I was plenty humble for that entire time. Caira had to forcefeed me hummous (she ordered me to eat the other half of a piece of pita bread she'd been picking from, and guilt forced me to comply), because my natural response to hospitality is to meekly (and politely, always infuriatingly politely) decline. I hate to impose.

I don't know. I'm probably suffering from a delightful number of neurotic disorders. You can help diagnose me if you like.

My friend Burrhus mentioned that he thinks I have a habit of falling in love with unattainable people, which is certainly true in the sense of a consequence, although I'm not sure what draws me to feel about the people I do. It seems more random, lonely, and hopeless than that.

Speaking of my problems with love, life, and self-esteem as I was (and I was! Isn't it convenient how everything I say builds up into something else? Just like a story!), I spoke with Clorinda today. I guess I was looking for answers -- something definite, be it definite confirmation that she was sore with me, or reassurance that this was not the case at all -- but I don't feel particularly full of the closure I wanted. It didn't seem like my call was that welcome, really. I remember a time when I could have called Clorinda, and it would have been something really special for us both, but this felt awkward, and intrusive, and painful. She wasn't hostile, or closed, really, but instead preoccupied. She's planning a big trip to Seattle to see one of her favourite bands in concert, and has to coordinate a lot of things. She's been distant from the world in general lately, of course, and I'm not sure if I should be taking it personally... I mean, I'm trying not to, but I still don't feel very good.
She told me there was nothing wrong at all, and she'd just been busy, but I guess I was waiting for something more. I can't really quantify that statement much... but I do feel like I've been left wanting. Maybe it's because Clorinda didn't seem overly excited about what happened with the trip. She just felt it was cool that it happened. And that kind of hurt my feelings. I said, "Well, that part doesn't matter to me. Money doesn't matter to me in that way." I wouldn't even mention it as anecdote if I'd wanted her just to be impressed. What I'd been trying to say was that, well, here's a promise: here's a second chance. This is how I'm going to be able to say the things I should have, and been as impressive and cool as I'd wanted to be.

I feel like she's disappointed in me. Caira mentioned the huge difference between my online personality, and the person I really am. That, if she had just read my web page, her envisionment of what I'd be like would be really different of who I am when she sits down and has coffee with me. When I write something, whether in a letter, or an e-mail, or on my web page (or IRC, when I used to IRC on FreeNet), I'm this extremely clever and funny person. And when you meet me, I'm still clever, and interesting, and I say funny things, but I'm much more quiet. I'm moody. I can be manic and intense, or subdued.

I wish I wasn't a person sometimes for this exact reason. If I were a computer, or a talking frog, everyone would want one of me. But as a person, I'm just boring and sad, and pretty unlovable.

Anyway, until tomorrow, folks.

N o v e m b e r 7

N o v e m b e r 6

When Clorinda came to find me, I was already awake, blinking blearily at the light coming to the door, concealing most of myself modestly behind blankets as I sat up. I resisted the urge to reach out desperately for a hug, and she left me to get dressed. And, of course, five minutes later I was outside, packed and ready (physically, versus psychologically) to face the day I left Spokane for home. I found that Clorinda's mother, supreme hostess personality that she is, had risen as well, packing me a variety of foodstuffs to last me on my voyage, including a nebulous but tasty fruity concoction called a breakfast salad, as well as an oriental salad (for lunch... she warned me not to confuse the two), and a huckleberry bagel, some cream cheese, and a huge ass Washington apple. Apparently the state is rather famous for its apples (much like the Ottawa valley and maple syrup; a fact only really constituting either significance or pride to residents), and I'm not surprised. This was a meaty little fellow, that even I, Mr. "Palm a Basketball" huge hands couldn't wrap my hand around. Certainly I was indebted to Clorinda's mother for her thoughtfulness, and she had been a gracious hostess, but I was still leery. Clorinda's mother spoils her friends rotten (she sent me home with a big bag of glow-in-the-dark frogs, though she wouldn't let Clorinda have any, so I made sure she took two before I left), and they all go away feeling like Clorinda has the best mother in the entire world. This makes her grumble, since her mother essentially made the largest portion of her life painful and scarring thanks to the dark side of her obsessive mania, and I become very angry when people hurt the ones I care for (I feel angry and indignant to that sort of thing in general, but I am especially protective of my friends... if I care about you, I'll get myself beat up for you, just because I'm that noble and dumb). So many of the people in my life have awful, domineering mothers. I feel like a freak for having a mother who loves me and treats me like a peer. I wish I could share my mother.

The apple and I actually had some adventures later, and hopefully the photos turned out. We'll have to see.

I left, with Clorinda, for the airport around 6:30. Although I sorely wished (even then) that I could have found words for what I was feeling, the car ride was largely silent and uncomfortable. Clorinda was singing habitually for most of the ride, which reminded me painfully of some of my past experiences with Lucretia. Lucretia handles emotions with the same degree of reservation that Clorinda does, and often during quiet stretches of time that were filled with emotional intensity (typically when a fight was brewing), she would occupy herself with music, or even just the same patient silence that Clorinda can conjure. I desperately wanted to talk about my feelings, but I felt as if the right time never came. I ultimately resolved myself towards things like, "OK, the second this song ends, I'll say it!" I mean... for whatever my angsty tensions, she does sing exquisitely, and I always felt rude interrupting her. I think my first words since leaving were me squeaking out, "Are you happy I came?" -- which is a ridiculous and unfair question, but I really was hoping for affirmation. I said a lot of things like that, and Clorinda was most reassuring, but her answers were always short, and then she'd return to singing. So I felt kind of out of place. Wanting to talk, but finding it difficult to maintain our conversation.

By the time we reached the airport, we were talking more openly. I kept telling her how much I was going to miss her, and for whatever reasons, Clorinda didn't really seem to believe me. She thought I was silly for the amount of loneliness I was professing to in advance, saying to me that, after all, I was going back to my home, and was going to see my friends, and I'd be happy and not at all lonely. It was all I could do to prevent myself from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her lightly, emphasizing that although I'd be returning to the things I considered essential to my state of "home," it was never in question that I'd be doing that in entirely too little time anyway. And while yes, certainly, home might be a dandy and comforting place, it wasn't where Clorinda would be. Our respective homes are thousands of miles apart, and my home was going to be exactly one Clorinda short of being the place I wanted most to be in the world. And one Clorinda counts for a lot. So, I was indeed highly troubled. I felt so empty leaving, and I wished desperately for another day. So much yet remained unsaid, and now that we even had the ability to talk frankly and comfortably about serious matters, as well as joke and fully enjoy each other's company again, I was due to fly away -- and who knows when we might be able to meet again?

We sat together in a free section of seats at a gate that wasn't actually related to my own; nevertheless, we watched intently for signs of progress on the delayed flight out, and sat, mutually moping. Clorinda was feeling decidedly unwell -- she hadn't yet taken her insulin that morning (in the entire span of our friendship, I hadn't realized until the day before that she needed to inject herself in the stomach, the poor thing), and sat with sickly compusure, staring straight ahead. At first I felt exceedingly awkward. I couldn't be sure, until I asked her what was wrong, if she were just upset with me, or if there were something actually the matter. And she admitted that yes, she was a little upset (versus angry), because it had been so frustrating in dealing with me, and trying to figure out how to accomodate my misery. I told her that she could go if she liked, and she promised to stay a few minutes. She told me that she didn't really think the trip had been worth it for me to make, and I started to cry. I told her, of course it was worth it. I couldn't have imagined anything else I wanted to do more than spend time with her. I told Clorinda that I only regretted my inability to be perfectly happy; that by making things so difficult for her, I'd shamed myself so gravely.
It was after a few more minutes of me sniffling and wiping away tears, and then sitting again with composure, that Clorinda had to leave. She felt wretchedly ill, and wanted to spare this tearful goodbye (which is the way I always deal with saying 'goodbye') of excessive amounts of vomit.

We hugged again, quickly but closely, and tarried a moment, with hands lightly clasped. My last words to Clorinda were "I love you." She smiled, and we separated. Then, well, there was nothing to do but trudge aboard my plane, and feel unwell.

The flight home was awful. I'm not sure what happened exactly, but it seemed that everyone in the Republic of the United States of America was flying that day, and most of them were heading exactly where I was going. Which made me feel in no small way diplomatic, but even moreso, just plain grumpy. The planes were packed, flights were late in taking off, and runways were crowded with different aircraft vying for takeoff positions. While I have little impatience with waiting per se, when I'm actually aboard a vehicle, I'm happiest when it is moving; and more specifically, moving in the manner and at the speed it was ideally intended. The planes themselves seemed fraught with technical problems, as well. I spent the trip from Spokane to Minneapolis hoping the plane would crash. I mean, if there were a giant Plane Crash button located inside my armrest where normally the seat recline toggle would be, I probably wouldn't have pressed it, but the idea of the plane itself just, through whatever mishap, crashing to the ground and liberating me from my self-loathing, shame, and guilt seemed at times appealing. Partly I was also just irrated with my fellow passengers, and so it was I saw no evil in their deaths, either.

This was where I decided to make the most of my flight home, though, and my adventures with Big Washington Apple were born. For the duration of the flight, I created a photo diary of the trip home, starring a big, red, delicious apple. In various airport scenes and touristy poses sat the apple, looking as coy and pleased as it could, and generally bewildering my fellow journeymen as I carefully posed and photographed it. I didn't have much time when I got to Minneapolis, but I snagged off a shot or two as I dashed from one end of the terminal to the other, to catch a plane that departed not much more than fifteen minutes after my feet entered gate seventy-nine, destined to run to a faraway gate they called only "Thirty-three." Detroit was more amusing though, because the plane that was destined to connect me to Ottawa was decidedly tardy, and I could do little else but explore and indulge my photogenic fruit with a foray into photojournalism. I went to a shoe-shine stand, and confused many, many people as I fussed and snapped. I must point out, of course, that I did have five hours to play with here, and you can only fill that kind of time at an airport in so many ways. And I mean, this was a great apple. It deserved preservation, if only on film.

My plane was intended to take off around 4:50, and deposit me in Ottawa by 7, at which point Broken would claim me, and take my sad carcass home. However, by seven o'clock, I was still in Detroit, sitting and waiting, pacing, and smiling at anyone who noticed my hair too loudly. Ultimately, it did, happily, seem as if I were going to be heading home. The shuttle came to cart our Ottawa-bound asses to the little plane that finished the flight for me (basically a Greyhound bus with wings and propellers strapped to it), and like dutiful ducklings, we ambled aboard.
And there we waited for ten, maybe fifteen, minutes, hoping it would start moving.

Eventually someone came on board, and started doing a count of heads and baggage. She was saying only that there were weight issues, and they had to see how many bags there were for loading, and then she vanished. Now, on the way down to Spokane as I caught a various flight to another airport, I passed a gate where I overheard the attendant say that their flight had been overbooked, and was asking for volunteers to stay behind, so I immediately jumped to the conclusion that they were going to ask this of us. Additionally, when I get unhappy, I turn into this giant purple martyr. I pout and feel miserable, and I love it when things go wrong because I can feel extremely sorry for myself. So usually I'll enable that sort of situation as well. I decided that, if they did indeed start looking for suckers, I would put my hand up and get off. After all, having spent three hours at the airport already, I was actually kind of psychologically ready for two more.

Ask us to leave, they did. The gate-type person came aboard and asked for six people to lighten up the load. I was gratified in being right, and was the second person off. I got back inside the airport, found relief in knowing they absolutely would be booking us for the next flight to Ottawa, at nine, and stretched my martyr legs a little. They had difficulty in rounding up enough people until the stakes involved were more fully understood.

You see, to anyone willing to make the sacrifice of just a little of their time, they were offering... six hundred dollars. Yes, indeed. I didn't realize this when I stuck my big feet forward, but the realization was numbing. I was dumfounded. Astonished. Giddy. I couldn't believe it.

I found myself presented with two vouchers just minutes later.. one bought me dinner (a vegetarian bagel sandwich, and man was it crammed with veggie heaven in sprout form...), and the other offered me the equivalent in six hundred dollars airfare anywhere that airline flew.

And here I feel the need to express the magnitude of this.

My flight to Spokane cost me six hundred dollars. All day long, I'd been wishing -- nay, pining -- for some manner in which I could fly back down, and make things up to Clorinda, or fly her up to Ottawa. "If only," I thought, "I had that kind of money again." And suddenly I did. Right in my hand. I felt bloated. And, for the first time in that entire day, I felt good.

I felt wonderful. I was handed a second chance. There was no way to fix what had happened on my trip, but no longer did I have to feel like I'd ruined a weekend for Clorinda that might never happen again. I mean... our time was precious, and irreplacable, and I wish it had gone better... but I held the opportunity to do it again. Anytime she wanted.

And so I say to the world, there was a surprise ending to my trip. Not as good as, say, the trip having gone perfectly the first time, but still something that promises to help. Even Clorinda isn't really aware of it, and won't be until she reads the Snivel. Few people actually do know yet. It was something I wanted to save up, build on for a couple of days, because I still find it overwhelming.

All I can say is that I hope Clorinda isn't upset... I hope she's been reading the Snivel, and feels the way I do right now. Basically I'm offering a promise... which is this: pick a day, and pick a person, and that person will fly up, or down, to see the other again. I want so desperately to make things up, and -- frankly, I've spent six hundred dollars to see her once, and given the chance (as I have been), I shall gladly spend that much money again.

N o v e m b e r 5

Clorinda and I sipped tea at her computer desk that first evening, as she chatted with her friends, who wackily bantered with her, and teased her about my arrival. I remember feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the sudden reality of my position -- of finally being in Spokane; finally having met my dear friend in the flesh. I felt different than normal. I can't quite explain it. But I think the immense novelty was intoxicating. I felt at home, but at the same time I appreciated the fact that my actual home was now thousands of miles away, on a different side of the continent, in another country. I tried eating the tasty pumpkin muffins Clorinda's mother had insisted we devour, got halfway through it and settled for the neato alien head lollipop Clorinda had procured for me instead. I took it as a symbolic act of aggression towards any and all interplanetary civilizations, and sucked its sugary purple head with every bit of the expected oral satisfaction you might expect me to have.
The night continued as we continued to talk and giggle about things, but it's here that I must warn you of my amazing powers to mess things up with little more than a sigh and a sniffle, lest you otherwise become too disgusted with me to continue reading.

There's no logic in saying "I felt so good I was sad," but according to Charlotte's Formal Business Writing instructor, the only way to really be a good writer is to keep thoughts simple, and words short. No "sixty-four dollar words" here, oh no. Instead, I'll just have to dutifully cease making any sense, so on behalf of myself, and Charlotte, and (above all) Clorinda (who is worthy of considerably more eloquence), it is very important that nothing but pain and mockery befalls any and all who try to make you write like that. Fight it. Fight the man.

Anyway, my desperate attempts at levity aside, my heart, such as it is, began to sink. The fact of the matter was that a great deal of the uncertainties, abstractions, and questions began to crystallize. Having met Clorinda, I was much more aware of how things were, and how they would have to be. I also became very much aware of the feelings I had for her. You see, for a long time, Clorinda and I have been close. We've shared endless thoughts of all degrees of intimacy, and even some secrets, and in the past year or so, have come to admire one another a great deal. To the point, sometimes, of affection. Clorinda was wise enough to tell herself that such closeness was impossible... she knew what would be in store if we should ever even attempt to explore these feelings. I lived too far away, and that was that. We'd never even met before then... and you would expect I would have believed the same things. Actually, in a way, I did. But I think my coping strategy involved avoiding the issue. I didn't face what could, or couldn't, be for the basic reason that I was living exactly with what was. So although we equally dealt with these feelings in ways that seemed satisfactory and healthy, I was actually quite unprepared for my ultimate reaction to Clorinda's presence.

I was in love with her.

This wasn't actually sudden, though it sounds like it. There is, however, some amount of difference in caring for someone you've never met, and then actually meeting her. Every bit of fondness, respect, admiration, and affection were no longer in the slightest bit abstract or unreal. She was with me. I was beside her.
To describe some of what I was feeling, I have to describe her to you, at least in some way. Clorinda, of course, is beautiful, though I knew that even before I met her. She has a soft, heart-shaped face, with tremendous dimples that appear often, because she's usually grinning about something. Her hair is dark, normally a kind of chestnutty, but presently dyed black. I find her eyes most fascinating. They're very dark, and uncommonly expressive. Clorinda doesn't always speak about her feelings that well, but sometimes, during moments of silence, her gaze would fall on me, and just rest there, and looking into her eyes would be almost impossible for me to do for long. She could express many things at once -- inquisitiveness, uncertainty, patience, sympathy, and even frustration. I'd usually end up having to look away out of shame after a couple of minutes; her sincerity and patience very much tore at my selfish and sombre withdrawal.

Clorinda is giving, and thoroughly kind. She goes out of her way for the people she cares about. Her parents are often critical of her, regardless, though I guess that's the way parents are for a lot of people. Nevertheless, she is thoroughly entitled to better, given how sweet she tends to be. Clorinda doesn't hate people, or hold grudges, which is extraordinary. She is not at all quick to anger, though when she does get upset, she has a punching bag bolted to the ceiling to take things out on. I saw her cut her hands up pretty badly on it while I was there (she was angry enough that she didn't bother to put on gloves, or tape her hands, and kept her rings on). I won't say what made her angry, but fortunately it wasn't me.
Clorinda is also brilliant, and insightful, and funny. I think, almost daily, we each coin sayings that sends the other into peals of laughter, and quickly become quoted running gags. We get each other's references to everything, especially Clerks references (and other Kevin Smith films), and could never, possibly, run out of things to talk, or laugh, about.

That is to say, except when I get sad.

Clorinda is also left-handed, which is only freaky because we are an uncommon species in this damnably right-handed world. Clorinda sings almost constantly, which is funny, because a lot of my other female friends do this as well, and every last one of them has an extraordinarily beautiful voice. Clorinda is their queen, however. She sings songs to make me weep. She also knows the words to just about any given song... it's very odd. I can only suppose that she only needs to hear a song a couple of times on the radio before she picks it up perfectly. Music is a huge part of her life. Fortunately, it should be.

So yes, Clorinda is a wonderful person, and I was utterly smitten. I wish I could have acted on it differently than I did. I knew, even then, that I was being stupid. But it was love. I think it's almost obvious to even me (it should definitely be obvious to you, dear reader) that I feel everything entirely too intensely. I can't step away from any feeling. I can only sink into it, and the doldrums or dizzying heights that come with it -- come what may. I mean, I knew I was foolish, and I knew I wasn't the one. Clorinda has a boyfriend who loves her very much, and my oafish heart was definitely treading forbidden territory. Instead of sobering me, and giving me resolve, though, this knowledge just made me very unhappy. More than I should have been. More than I had any right in the world to be feeling. I mean, I expected nothing from her, more than the pleasure of her company. I had no lofty goals or ambitions for this trip. I knew what was, and what must be. I thought I was ready for it. I thought I was capable of being a reasonable human being, and not a depression monkey, like those awful little rhesus monkeys they used to separate from their mothers as behavioural experiments, clinging pathetically to terrycloth dummies and growing up to be psychologically ruined monsters that killed their own offspring.

When I become sad, I clam up quite awfully. I almost retreat from the real world altogether... staring at ceilings, or floors, lost in heavy thoughts. It's disturbing and annoying for anyone who has to witness it. This was more extreme than anything I've ever experienced though. I wish I could say why. Maybe it was being in a foreign environment, where the comforts of my daily life were far away (even though I was comfortable and happy and safe where I was). Maybe it was the knowledge that I'd be leaving in a couple of days, and it might be indefinitely long before Clorinda and I would meet again. Maybe it was the difference in magnetic fields from Washington and Ontario. Who can say?

Clorinda noticed my depression when we were sitting on her bed late that night, talking. I didn't want to explain my feelings though. Perhaps she guessed. I'm assuming it was obvious. I'm very transparent, and she knew my feelings about her in general. It was hard. I tried all I could to be normal and pleasant, but I failed quite miserably. When we finally went to bed, she hugged me close and took me upstairs to the guest bedroom, trying to reassure me. I fell asleep that night around three, and woke up around six in the morning, unable to return to sleep. I was lonely -- lonelier than I could believe, or understand. I lay there for an hour, wishing she was with me, wishing we could talk. Eventually, I fell asleep, for a couple of more hours before she came to wake me up.

Hallowe'en was an unusual day. It began quietly, and Clorinda and I began it (after breakfast, insistently provided by her mother) lounging around downstairs. My spirits were still low, and after unsuccessful attempts at mirth, usually punctuated by her poking or tickling me, using as her battlecry the words "Take that!" Clorinda cornered me and made me talk about what was bothering me. So, I began in my indirect way, providing a short backstory, and working up to the ever growing complexity of the present plot, and after about ten minutes of irrelevant babble, I told her "I'm in love with you," and then I stuffed my face into a pillow, ashamed to even meet her eyes. Clorinda made me extricate my head, telling me that there was no reason to be ashamed of what I was feeling. She reassured me, or at least she tried her very best to, because at that point I was largely beyond consolation. She held my hand, squeezing it comfortingly, and with my burdensome confession out into the air, I hoped that I would be able to feel better about myself. Of course, that was plain silly, but what did I know? My self-esteem was not to be raised that day, despite superhuman efforts on Clorinda's part.

The hardest part of Hallowe'en was the social aspect. I admit that I was feeling very insecure and self-conscious, and our plans for that night included attending a Hallowe'en party with Clorinda, and some friends, most notably her boyfriend. She spent a good amount of time freaking herself up for the evening, putting on a wonderfully pale assortment of goth makeups (her mother exclaimed, "How's that any different from how you normally look?"), including the eye makeup of Death from the Sandman comics. She also put on dark tights, and her favourite gothy boots rescued from Goodwill, and a long T-shirt that said "Creepy" in red letters. The t-shirt was long enough to come down past her thighs, happily, because she neglected to wear any pants. Regrettably, my own costume was too bulky to come travelling with me, so I was unadorned, save my exceptionally bright purple hair.

When we made our way out, we were heading to her boyfriend's house so that she could put makeup on him; a prospect Clorinda was exceedingly fond of. This was the acid test for me -- could I cope? And of course, I couldn't. I was awful. I hardly said a thing. I tried my best to be pleasant, and polite, of course, and even said some witty things here and there, but ultimately I really sucked. I'm sure most people would have found it hard to meet such a person, but I have the most unusual lack of emotional control, and it was especially painful. My natural reaction to significant others is an inferiority complex. This gets expressed in different ways, depending on the context. If I'm merely the thwarted best friend who must now compete for time, I get cranky and sullen, but it passes with the right amount of attention, and it helps considerably if I find qualities in this person that I like. If, however, I'm facing someone who has won the heart of someone I love as well, it's crushing for me. I react quite despondantly, sort of conceding defeat to whoever I've realized must (by default, not by reason) be the better person. It's easier to reconcile if I admire and like this suitor. I'm not sure that, in this case, I did. I really wish I had liked him. I wanted to. But I didn't. And anything I say is obviously tainted, so I'm not going to say anything about him. Clorinda obviously cares for him, and in that sense he must be special. Wonderful even. And so, I felt worse. I felt inferior. Not that this is fair to Clorinda at all -- she isn't picking sides. And it's not fair to her boyfriend -- he just wants to care about her.

Maybe it's because he didn't treat her didn't like a princess. In my twisted little mind she ought to be. I'm no better of course. I do all sorts of annoying things, for the reasons of being helpful, but after awhile it gets grating, I'm sure. I suppose, though, that I'd feel more capable of quietly being happy for Clorinda if she found someone whose heart would be heavy if he (or, for that matter, she) weren't constantly inventing ways to make her smile. I'm sure that there must be a way to pull that off without being psychologically defective.

We had mirthsome misadventures, the group of us, though. While waiting for one of Clorinda's friends to return home, we crossed the street and visited this gigantic and attractive old church that existed downtown. And making various pagan comments (like the heathens we were), we walked up the steps to the main doors. Clorinda's boyfriend made some comment like "I thought churches weren't supposed to lock their doors," and we yanked on a handle. The door swung open, revealing blackness. So, like proper criminals, we slowly crept inside, to see what we could see. Which was when the alarm went off, and we zipped back down the stairs, across the street, and ran away. I'm sure in subsequent retellings of the story we'll talk about how we punched a priest carrying a shotgun in the face, and drank all the holy water, but for the moment I'm telling it essentially like it was.

The next day was a mixture of things. Clorinda insisted that today was the day we were heading downtown to hang out and see the sights, and quite eagerly I was wrestling with some of my feelings, including -- and I'm very ashamed to admit it -- jealousy. This isn't usually one of my emotions. I have enough dignity and goodness to elude it, and it bothered me to no end that I felt it. I was beginning to starve a little for attention, and though this wasn't Clorinda's fault (she honestly didn't know how to cheer me up.. and found it very frustrating. She couldn't tell when it was best to try to talk to me about what I was thinking, and when she should just leave me to my brooding), it was affecting me deeply. We ended up picking up one of Clorinda's friends, and heading over to the house of her erstwhile (but returning) best friend to hang out for the afternoon. I was on my worst behaviour, let me say: I was quiet. I didn't really mesh well. Normally I would have, but my emotions were retarding my social skills. I bantered as much as I could, but was left feeling guilty, because everyone commented, "I always thought you were supposed to be talkative and funny, Rob! Geez!" and I was basically just making an antisocial fool out of myself.

It was interesting, in a way, to present myself to everybody though. I fielded a lot of questions about Canada to everybody, based largely just on what I suppose are the few stereotypes that leak across the border. The best question I got was, "Do you have Hallowe'en in Canada?" and I said "Yeah, but we call it Pumpkin Day." I remember raising my eyebrow because I think people believed me. The little differences were fascinating though. I definitely wanted to go back. I definitely wanted to see more.

I resolved myself to talk to Clorinda about my desire to just have some "quality time," though. After dinner, we went back downstairs to talk and hang out, and Clorinda checked her e-mail again, and BBS'ed for a little while, seeing who was on (hey, I do the same thing with FreeNet...). She found her boyfriend on-line, and they chatted while he MUD'ed. He was sweet though, because he told her that he missed her, and that made her happy, and I was feeling more and more like a creep for feeling so sullen that afternoon. At some point, though, he was talking about how excited he was about the fact that he was going to go see a Jethro Tull concert with Clorinda Monday evening, which I'd known about before because it was happening later the same day I left for home, and he said he really thought it was going to be a great day, and was looking so forward to it. It was here when I felt really hurt, and thought to myself unfortunately quite sourly, "Yeah, it's going to be a great day... except the part where I leave!" which is, I believe, the second jerkiest thought I've ever had. I was upset, though. I felt like I was just keeping them apart, and I felt useless, and like an obstacle, and I realized that my ruminations had done nothing more than ruin the past two days for Clorinda. I was hurt, and upset, and ashamed of myself, and I decided I'd better just be away from the conversation. That, of course, was also a pathetic plea for attention, but luckily it didn't work. I lay on Clorinda's bed for about half an hour, focusing on the ceiling and wanting to talk about my feelings.. and yet being too stubborn to bring it up myself. She continued to chat on-line, and as time went on, I felt more and more unhappy, bitterly wondering "Why is that so important?"

In time, though, Clorinda found me. She decided we were going to go out for coffee and have lots of fun, and logged off to retrieve me. I however, decided that I wanted to talk first, so she sat down beside me while I continued to watch the ceiling, and waited for me to speak.

It took a few minutes for me to find the words. I found the experience oddly touching, however. The whole time, Clorinda sat, watching me intently, smiling softly, and looking expectant and inquisitive. At first I was feeling immature and slighted, and so hurt as to be almost angry, but everytime I looked into her eyes, I felt ashamed of myself, because her sincerity and hopefulness were so clear. She didn't look away once, and my heart melted. Sheepishly, I tried to explain myself, and when I made a point, Clorinda would offer her side. She understood that I was feeling neglected, but she found it so difficult to humour me with attention. There were times I seemed to spurn it. I'd look away, or shy from a hug, or her playful poking and tickling. And I explained that whenever she reached out to me, I felt at once endlessly and achingly needy, but also unworthy of her affection. I'd feel like the worst person in the world, and so very lonely. She told me that she wanted to spend time with me, but when I was sullen and silent, there was nothing to do except get bored, and that made her desperately try to liven things up by bringing her friends into the circle, because she honestly didn't know what else to do for me. And I said that I needed her. I needed her in my life, and as much as her friends were obviously important to her, I only had a little bit of time to be with her, and it, unfortunately, just wasn't enough time to get to know everyone in her life.

The more we talked, the better we both felt. Clorinda tried tickling me as time wore on, and to seized her hand, and instead pressed it against my cheek. She let it stay there while we talked, and while there were so many times I was ready to cry, her touch was comforting and sweet. Later on, she let me put my head in her lap, commenting only that there was now a breast on my head while she held me. She stretched out, and I curled up alongside her, with my head against her chest, and for perhaps the first time since our first wonderful night together, we felt at ease. We talked and laughed again, endlessly and happily. The words came effortlessly. I felt important, and special, and welcomed. I wouldn't have traded this sudden and mutual understanding for anything -- not even a lightsabre.

Sunday was our last full day. I was due to leave early Monday morning, and fortunately this day was much more comfortable and happy for the both of us. My spirits were much lighter, and we had big plans to romp downtown and frolic Spokane style. This is, in fact, precisely what we did. I was introduced to the savoury joy of chocolate covered gummi bears, a bourgeois delicacy that is, despite all appearances, addictive and cool. Clorinda bought yet more candlepower for her room -- an immense monstrosity that had three wicks, and we zipped back and forth through downtown in her car, Clorinda singing just about every song on the radio, and even yours humbly joining in periodically to harmonize somewhat, though I'm not sure if she even noticed (I've never been sure if my singing voice sucks or not... I can only hope she would have pointed it out to me if she hated the way I sounded). The approach of the evening cast a more mellow mood, however. I felt emotional, because the time of my departure grew imminent, and without much time left, I was feeling clingy and panicked.

We went to bed early that night -- Clorinda, having to rise at five in the morning to drive me to the airport, was exhausted. I was sort of digging in with my heels, hoping for a little more time to talk (secretly, I was hoping we could have stayed up all night blathering), however I was actually aware that this was one argument I was not going to win. I went to bed, couldn't sleep, and wrote Clorinda a letter that I didn't end up finishing. It wasn't very clever anyway.

To best describe the flight home requires a whole new Snivel, so it shall wait for tomorrow. It was long and involved, though, and for some odd reason Monday was the worst conceivable day, apparently, to want to fly anywhere. Everyone else seemed to be travelling as well. Planes were late, breakdowns were frequent, and people had to wait for hours to catch a flight.

Presently I feel ashamed of myself. Clorinda has reassured me that her high opinion of me hasn't changed, and neither has our odd friendship, but it's a hard thing for me to believe. I don't want her to be angry with me, but I still feel like I deserve it. She was so kind, and such a delight to spend time with, and yet I repaid her with sulkiness. I feel like a creep. She was largely concerned that I didn't enjoy myself; that I might feel like it wasn't worth the time or the money to visit. And I tried to explain... I tried to tell her that of course I had a good time. Being with her, at all, was wonderful. It was the only reason I came down. I hadn't wanted anything from her, or had any particular plans for my visit. I didn't want to see the sights (Clorinda's mother was mortified that I didn't get out to see any of the local tourist attractions), and I didn't need to be entertained. I just needed her, and I got exactly what I came for. The only problem was that I knew, even as I arrived, that I'd be leaving, and that now that I'd met such a special, beautiful, person as Clorinda, I would suddenly be missing her terribly when I departed. I also realized how very much I wished I could have had her in my everyday life, as more than a person at the opposite end of an internet connection.

Love is the worst emotion in the world. I've said this many times, and I'm not shy about fully applying it to myself. Love makes you selfish and needy, and turns good intentions into regrettable actions. I was, and still am, delighted to have made that trip to see Clorinda -- in spite of the cost, and in spite of the time. My only regret is that I wasn't the fun person I should have been. I can't quite regret feeling the way I do, but I definitely wished I had been able to act differently.

I hate myself right now. I can only hope she'll forgive me someday.

There was just one good thing about the flight home, in spite of everything.

You'd have to call it a surprise ending. I'd call it a gift, as well. It isn't a time machine, and it can't undo what happened, but it does offer something special. Clorinda doesn't even know about it yet... few people do.

And it's a magical sort of surprise that must wait for tomorrow.

N o v e m b e r 4

Oh, the rain.

It's difficult to say how I feel right now, simply because over the past five days I've experienced so many different feelings. But let me say tentatively, anyway, that I've fallen in love with flying. That was my first impression of the trip. I have never, ever, been on a plane before, unless it happened when I was too much of a munchkin to remember, and I was entranced by it. In a lot of ways, I really am like a giant kid. As the little plane took off from Ottawa last Thursday, I was fixated with the view out the window, staring down at my rapidly shrinking city, capturing as many landmarks as I could before they drifted out of sight... the last feature I really held in my head was Dunton Tower, phallic masterpiece of Carleton University, my school and my love. I had this amazing sensation of the world looking just like the opening sequence to Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, where you pan out over a landscape of model buildings and cars. I mean, that's what every city looked like. Bugtown. My younger brother and I used to play with Tonka construction vehicles in this giant sandpile, and build creations quite similar. Cars looked just like little toys, shining in the sun, with roads and buildings, lakes and rivers like puddles. It was beautiful. The only time I really got true sense of scale was as we flew over Lake Michigan, coming into Detroit the first time. It, being perfectly visible from space, is enormous, like any Great Lake, and stretched out to the horizon. And I saw this one lone laker puffing along the shore, heading to deeper waters. Those ships are big. I decided right after takeoff that I love flying. I love the feel of speed as you zip down the runway for takeoff, with the engines roaring and the scenery blurring past, and gravity pulling you back into your seat like you're in a spaceship. I couldn't imagine how anyone ever got bored of it... of looking down on the world, and seeing how pretty it is.

The other sense I got from flying is that no one's life is really all that important. It doesn't really matter. Quite often, I'd be looking out on cities, and imagining that there was this spacecraft visible from my window, doing loops and daring spins, as it reared down and strafed sprawling metropolis after metropolis with electric death. Or, for that matter, that our plane was actually a bomber, making lethal runs. I mean, my mind wanders. But it just gave me the sense that, even if it was all blowing up, it was all so tiny and stupid. From the ground, our little lives are central to everything, but in the air, you realize that we're all just little bugs -- every last one -- and our oh-so important existences lose a lot of their meaning with a little extra perspective.

There's also nothing like a city at night. I was blown away by the magnitude of American cities. I mean, Ottawa is big. And Toronto is big. They are, however, not enormous, which is the sense I got from looking out on something like Detroit at night, which is beyond belief. I mean, you really couldn't see where it ended. Eventually, of course, it did, but to the horizon and back, there it was, millions of lights laying out grids in all kinds of colours, with tiny cars everywhere showing up only as red or white light. The earth only looks truly subdued by man when you can see it at night like that. Huge, and covered, absolutely covered, with light -- meaning life.

I got into Spokane around ten o'clock Thursday night, a little later than planned, but still giddy with excitement. As soon as I got inside the airport proper, I was met by Clorinda, who looked just like she should have, wearing a crazy shirt that she calls the "grope shirt" (on account of it being made of material that begs to be stroked), waving an American flag as a means of welcome. And immediately, we started talking and laughing. I was astonished by how well we got along. Everything she said, or I said, was interesting and funny. I figured that there would have to be at least a little awkwardness, but it was nowhere. We got into her car, saw some sights of downtown Spokane (which impressed me to no end), and then whipped back to her house along the outskirts... spending the whole time enjoying one another's company. And it was when we got to her house that I met her parents, whom I've been briefed about in detail, but was still not exactly prepared for. Clorinda's mother is a super hostess type, who reminds me of one of my aunts for her dedication to good taste and Martha Stewart-esque ideals of decor and housekeeping, but is also quite manic, so she forces all of this on you with a vicious energy I find disarming. My natural inclination is to never be a bother to anybody, which Clorinda learned to her immense frustration ("No, no thank you... I'm fine... I don't want anything..."), and so it was that I was bewildered by her insisting that we have tea and muffins, which she brought down to Clorinda's room.

Clorinda has the most delightful room. I must say, my room is dandy and cool, but hers is huge, and so bright. It's in the basement, and is easily three times the size of mine. It is packed with candles and posters of Tori Amos (her love and obsession... and we all have at least one), and the area surrounding her bed is plastered with glow-in-the-dark stars. And, yeah, I have a lot of those too, but when she turned off the lights to display their glowy magic to me, I was so delighted by their shininess and density. Her walls and ceiling are a virtual galaxy of different sizes and shapes and colors of stars, some spelling out things, most just dazzling you with light. She has a huge bed that was kind of a social centre. Quite wisely, she has it in mind of the number of people it can hold (four or more), but for our purposes it was spacious and cozy and perfect for sitting, or stretching out, and talking upon. Largely though, we were at first confined to her desk across the room, where she checked her e-mail (and hey, we all do that the second we get home from anything.. I can't go take a shower without checking my e-mail immediately afterwards), and then BBS'ed awhile with her friends, who were on-line as would be any self-respecting MUD (to my chagrin) types. I tried MUD once, on the advice of a good friend who himself was quite into it at the time, but I found it confusing and weird and therefore didn't like it.

So, this was my first introduction to her world, and for the most part I was pleased as punch by it all, but I really do have to say with regret here, that for the perfect start that we had, there was much bittersweetness to this candy bar.

This story is to be continued later today. It's going to be big, but that means I have to squeeze it in with classes and everything.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

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