From one perspective, I saw Lilith last night. From the other perspective, well, I didn't. The important thing for me, anyway, is that I saw someone, sitting in the Second Cup on Bank, not far from my house, who made me stop and say to myself, "Gosh, she looks a lot like Lilith." Then I kept on walking, because in my Friday night hurries I had a bus to catch, and though it probably would have been wise to at least stop in and make sure, I was in the sort of state of mind where I wanted to pretend it didn't matter whether it was her I saw. I actually wanted to try to forget the experience -- which is not, to say, the same thing as me actually believing I truly could. It actually disturbed and upset me greatly. I'll try to explain why.

Whoever it was I saw through the gigantic coffee-shop window, she reminded me of someone (at least formerly) special, and crucial, and pivotal, to my life. She wore her hair in the same way... pulled back into a big curly mop, with the same sort of distictive features. The only difference is that in this weather, Lilith typically has a pale, but rosy complexion (on account of her metabolic intolerance to cold). In any event, the identity of this person remains ambiguous simply because I was rushing past, and didn't see enough of her to successfully conclude it really wasn't her. I mean, I'm the timid sort of lemur-boy who sees that certain face in the crowd everywhere, but only when it becomes extremely emotionally painful for me to. My senses are considerably more reasonable when I'm in good spirits, and in fact I'm probably more observant when I'm not (even subconsciously) paranoid that I might run into someone.

I used to see Phil a lot. The last time, I was on a subway in Toronto, and although the chances of actually seeing anybody you know on a subway are exceedingly minute (particularly if they no longer live in said city), I was happily talking to Broken during a pleasant ride downtown to Queen St. W, when suddenly I jumped and paled and gasped for air. Someone had gotten onto the train who evinced only the most passing resemblance to that particular mean ex-girlfriend, in that she was kind of tall and had short dark hair and a nosering. But my brain saw enough similarity to instinctively make me want to bolt in terror, which is actually my most common reaction during our real encounters. Ironically, one of the last legitimate Phil encounters I had happened when Lilith and I were much, much closer. We accidentally found Phil working at a patio cafe on Sparks Street (a giant pedestrian outdoor mall downtown... basically a street with lots of touristy places, legions of pigeons, and no cars), and I freaked out. I was almost ill, and was emotionally disturbed enough to find it difficult to walk. Lilith held my hand quite sweetly as we walked past, giving me the support necessary to actually proudly parade into, then out of, my ex-girlfriend's awareness, and my pretty wonderful love by my side.

In some sense, the most unpleasant fact for me to try to deal with was knowing that, whomever this person might be, she was obviously out on a date, and I was forced to dwell on the knowledge that, although I almost certainly didn't see my friend, she did indeed have a new boyfriend, and for some reason I'm angsty and self-destructive enough that seeing someone, who used to love me more than anything, loving someone else, hurts more than I can sanely justify. I think perhaps it has much to do with my desire to be singularly important to people. I like it when I matter -- I love it when I matter a lot. That feeling that comes, of being "replaced," is poisonous. As I've mentioned before, I'm very competitive towards significant others in general. Not hostile or anything, and usually I can learn to like them quite a lot. Instinctively, though, I'm territorial about my friends, and having that "Person-who-wants-to-see-them-naked" move in on me, involves a person who possesses a significance and desireability that the humble "best friend," for whatever other qualities that friend might have, cannot entirely match. I mean, sex is important.

However, I could not at all properly paint you a picture of the misery I experience when someone I love, or used to love, brings someone new into her life. Part of me feels cast aside, and replaced, and all of me feels worthless, and inferior, and much like an insect (but not an interesting insect, of which there are many). Rejection is unpleasant, but nothing is so awful when that rejection has a name, a face, and a penis.

Luckily, I internalize everything, so while I'm probably insane and creepy, the only victim is myself. Someone close to me is going through a point in her life where she herself has begun cutting, and because of my painful, foolish, regrettable, but hiply destructive and bleak history of self-mutilation, I feel a lot more than the usual reaction of confusion, concern, and trivialization ("What could you possibly be unhappy about? It's a beautiful day, everything's good in your life," etc. etc. etc..."). I sympathize, and empathize, and I can also look at my own skin and try to visualize the forty or so slashes that used to decorate the underside of my right arm at times of extreme self-hatred and self-punishment. I think what ultimately stopped me was shame. I didn't want anyone to see me. I wasn't crying for attention, or trying to kill myself. I just wanted it to hurt. Physically hurt as much as emotionally hurt. So I got into the habit of wearing long shirts over my arms, which is something I still haven't ceased in doing. The shame, the hiding, the guilt, all sort of motivated me to take my pain, and turn it into infuriating states of catatonia, as opposed to harmful states of mania. My friend, for both good and ill, is not a creature of the same peculiar guilt and shame as I (she has her own brand), so I'm at a loss to know how to help. Except to say that I'm here.

But I digress.

Granted, it's the digressions that keep you coming back.

But anyway.

I haven't seen Lilith in seven months. This was the most concussive fact to hit me last night. I realized of course, in some sense it had been impossibly long since she and I had gathered together in good company, but it had been some time (owing to coping skills, perhaps) that I did not, actually, bother to calculate the particulars. We speak, of course, but even this hasn't been something I've been especially good at. I constantly intend to call her, and assert my friendly presence in her life, and somehow (in my hopeful way), restore our friendship, which definitely still exists, but for neither of us is quite so desperately important as once it was. I sent her a postcard from Spokane, telling her I was doing great, and blabbing about how neat Clorinda was to be with in person, and promised that I would call her soon; and thus feel obliged to keep that promise. I think for awhile though, it did seem like little more than obligation. It always hurt to talk, and she was always out at dance practice or school, and calling became less of a priority. I realized last night, though, that I missed her terribly -- much more so than just as the theoretical concept of "Of course I miss Lilith! Don't talk crazy like that!"

I've felt decidedly incomplete, tired, unhappy, and unfulfilled since our fight, and the commencement of the state of atrophy that has slowly rotted away at our friendship. I wonder if perhaps I've been searching for someone, or some way, to allow me to be different, and bigger, all this time. If I'm trying to replace her in the way that I myself felt replaced. I don't really think that explains it properly, though. It makes the powerful feelings I've had for others since then as nothing more than a state of "rebound," and makes the explanation too simple and convenient. And I do have other people in my life, like Broken, who love me, and whom I love, and in that way completes me, and fills me with that safety and happiness and fulfillment of being special, and important... of being Somebody, to someone. Not all the time, however. I'm still lonely, and for the most part I don't like myself a single bit. That doesn't seem likely to change; anymore than I'm likely change.

Still... I'm not the person I want to be, that's for certain.

N o v e m b e r 21

It was sort of my impression that I'd earned the night off, because I got my philosophy (language and communication) essay back that afternoon, and was delighted to discover that somehow yours humbly had managed to earn himself the delicious grade of an "A." It even had a shiny gold star sticker on it; my philosophy professor is an amazing man, and he's wacky enough to put stickers on the better papers (a happy face sticker for a paper in the "B" range, and stars for papers attaining an "A"). I've had him for two years now, and it's kind of frustrating and tragic, because here I am, from all perspectives nothing more than some purple-haired goon who's always late (my natural pose is slinking sheepishly past him fifteen minutes into any given class, Jolt in hand, trying to avoid his eyes), and yet secretly I'm one of his gems. And never will he know, because, well, I never contribute anything in class, never say anything at all, in fact, and seem probably quite average and dumb. I came closer to winning some recognition yesterday, however. Rob (my professor) decided that because he had this big pile of essays before him at long last, he might as well get a chance to learn people's names, so he called out names one-by-one, and waited to see who got up.
My paper was the very last one on the pile, and I sat there the whole time, twitching and sweating the cold sweats, wondering what my grade would be, and when my name would be called. And because I sat in the very back (like every zombie student), it took me a few seconds to reach the point in the class where he was located, and could subsequently retrieve my essay. So he had time to read my title, which was a former Weekly Misanthropic Philosophy, about Gary Kasparov and Deep Blue (my essay was on artificial intelligence, a personal interest), and he smirked and handed it to me, doubtlessly noticing the gold star on the cover page (he didn't mark the essays, the TA did) and therefore associating it with my greatness.

All in all, it was just a nice change of psychological pace; a little success for once to boost what is even for me uncharacteristically self-destructive low self-esteem.

N o v e m b e r 20

As a quick aside, I recently (and finally) managed to cobble together sufficient motivation and justification to add a web counter to my web site. Now, for a long time I've been reluctant to do any such thing, as they typically are cumbersome and distracting, and if the counter crashes (as they always do), your page probably won't load at all. I also knew I'd become obsessed with the statistics. This so far is exactly what has happened. I'm absolutely fascinated with the figures that my little web page seems to be inspiring. If you cared to see what I mean, you can find the link to the statistics page for my little web makeout pad on my Central Causal Paradox, located right at the bottom, hidden at the lowest left corner. I installed it Saturday afternoon, and the numbers it has logged since then, while not staggering by any stretch, are sufficiently impressive that I really do wish I'd thought to do this two years ago -- I'm sure the tally would be gratifyingly huge.

I'd also care for some input on the wisdom of this counter situation. I'm extremely leery of it. My Carleton account will not allow for any of its own homestyle CGI processing, so I had to go to one of those web sites that provides free web counters. This means I'm subscribing to all the attendant problems. It's already crashed once, and I'm feeling grumpy, yet co-dependent, towards it. If my homepage seems to take longer than normal to load, or seems somehow awkward, or if you're just a disenfranchised HTML purist and you want to drag me back to the flock of those who rightfully worship unencumbered web pages, please -- whatever you think -- let me know.

And now back to our regularly scheduled philosophy class.

N o v e m b e r 19

Take my friend Charlotte. Now, she isn't crazy, I should assure you, but she does have the funny sort of earnest charisma and magnetism that allows for her to attract to her person countless hordes of the odd and befuddling masses. Certainly I may or may not be one of these people, but that's a moral for another story, and in any event, our friendship has worked out just fine, thank you -- be that because of, or in spite of, my... shall we say, distinguished personality. Charlotte is always quite friendly to people, and even goes out of her way to talk to complete strangers if she thinks that they are in some way interesting. She doesn't feel awkward with people easily, and can usually find various qualities to enjoy about people. She suffers the same mixture of introversion and extroversion that I do, but copes with entirely more success, and these things make her, above all, a charming and lovable person.

This has a number of blessings, and also some decidedly negative consequences, of course. On the plus side, many of the people Charlotte draws into her life are intelligent, sincere, giving people (which is lucky given the oddly trusting nature of my friend), many of whom become close friends, or even boyfriends -- such as her friend Slash, who will be moving in with her this January, and whom I slowly grow to approve more of (I actually find that the only lingering sensation is a sense of imminence as I find myself feeling competitive, knowing that there will be a 24-hour boyfriend to vie for Charlotte's time with... I get this way with boyfriends and girlfriends in general, however... I'm an insecure and uppity best friend). As for the dark side, though, it should be apparent that many people in this world are suffering from some problem or another that makes them exceedingly difficult to want to spend more time with than the necessary duration required to point at some undefined spot and say "Hey, what's that over there?" and run away or jump through a window. Charlotte may have excellent judgement, but she also has excellent people skills, and usually has a few minutes for just about anyone, even drunk Market people trying quite awfully to pick her up in the middle of the night.

In any event, this leads us into today's story. Charlotte and I talked on the phone between one and two in the morning last night (and this could have gone on but we both, oddly, are responsible adults now, and both have Important Jobs and Pressing School Matters to attend to each day, and no longer are the days where I can sleep in till five PM and get up just in time for dinner...mmm...slacking...note to self: have more afternoon classes next year), and she recounted the oddness of her weekend. Slash was down from Waterloo for a couple of days, but just before he arrived, Charlotte was due to see her sister perform onstage. So, she made it to the hall where it was due to happen, and was early enough, she thought, that she could sit herself down and have some dinner with the other people in the dining room. So she sat down at a table with a woman and her children, and another man. And they all chattered and communicated in various human smalltalk manners for awhile, and then the woman and her children left. There was still time yet before her older sister's performance, so she and the man were talking. And it was the general sort of "getting to know you," chitchat; he wasn't from around Ottawa, but I can't at all remember where he said he was from now... I mean, it was two in the morning and I was caught napping in a fit of sulkiness when Charlotte called. I'm lucky I had sense enough to even pick up the phone, instead of trying to shut off the alarm clock or something.

Anyway, it was that kind of conversation. We've all had them before, be it on buses, or planes, in restaurants, or waiting in line for something. People find this need to fill silences with sociability, which in terms of strangers, I never really experience it myself. It's only when I'm with friends that I think any period of silence is a really bad thing. Charlotte didn't really give it much thought; he was kind of neat, and she's always really open and friendly. So, afterwards, she was talking with some other people, and he put on his coat and got up, and motioned towards her as if to convey a desire to speak to her. Charlotte responded, and excused herself to go talk to him again. He asked her if, well, if she didn't mind that, maybe, you know, he might be able to call her sometime? So, she gave him her number, thinking, "Yeah, that's fine. Whatever. Sometime he'll be in Ottawa, and he'll be like 'Hey! I'm in Ottawa! Let's go have a beer at the Manx' or something," and that will be that.

Which you know, you just know, is foreshadowing.

Anyway, we can skip ahead a couple of days later. Charlotte and Slash were curled up on the couch, having a good weekend all told, when the phone rang. She tended to ignore the phone that weekend, (elbow in the rib, "Heh, heh!") but in this case picked it up. And it was this guy. So, they talked for a little bit, with the "Hey, how are you?" and "Yeah, that was a fun night," and everything else, but then he changed gears, and started saying things like "You know, Charlotte, you really are beautiful!" and he spent a creepy amount of time saying such sudden (if nice) things to her, going on about how friendly she was, and interesting, and articulate, and blah blah blah.

Charlotte was somewhat taken aback, and was also honest. She asked him why he was saying such things... after all, he hardly knew her. They talked for maybe ten minutes that night. She told him as well, that he should really know that she was involved with somebody, and it was his response that made me shiver... "Oh... Charlotte (with disappointment), I don't want you to be involved with someone!" which was just plain icky. And he's called again, and left messages, and all she can really think to do is be extremely honest and blunt the next time they speak, and let that be the end of it.

My response was surprise, creeped-outness, and other such unpleasant feelings that made me wriggle around in bed awkwardly. I've always admired Charlotte's sincerity and friendliness to strangers, because it so obviously contrasts with my reserved silences -- which some might attribute to some sense of intellectual superiority, disgust, misanthropy, or elitism, but in actuality is just plain shyness. People make me uncomfortable, as much as I love them and need them in my life. Well, let's say instead that I need specific people, and therefore the general public can often result in my feeling especially ready to run away, and otherwise wishing to be left very very alone. I go through alternating periods of extroversion and introversion, which unfortunately Clorinda recently had to witness, as fun, wacky, and clever Rob, magically turned into unresponsive, dull, and sad Rob. It's like being He-Man, but... not quite. I'm hoping there's a pill that can, by the power of science, fix me.

My contribution was a story of a different kind of encounter with a stranger that was nevertheless equally disturbing. There's this woman that my friend Broken and I vaguely know through poetry scene circles. She's in her forties, is a student at Carleton as well, and seems nice for the most part. We've (meaning she, Broken, and I) engaged in smalltalk now and then on campus, blabbing about our little lives and our little poetic endeavours, and other such relevant, but not especially personal, subjects. Anyway, I guess it was about two months ago now that Broken and I were having lunch in the Loeb Cafe at school, enjoying tasty salads in that "Between-class meal that is lunch" kind of way. People do it all the time. So, as we munched and chatted, this woman sat down next to us, and we spent the next twenty minutes, or so, in conversation. We ended up in an argument of sorts, but only in the most impoverished, "point-counterpoint" sense of the word. We were discussing artistic inspiration, which I found myself quite capable of talking about, but not at all interested in getting particularly upset over.
She'd made a point about how, as artists, we are forced to write, or draw, or whatever expression we personally prefer. That if you get an idea in your head, you have no choice but to do something with it, because otherwise it will drive you crazy, as it is both your nature and manifest destiny to leave your mark and express yourself. And I'm often a little contrary, and I took that stance that, well, that's just silly. I maintained that, as an artist, you can be as magnificently inspired as you like, but you can always choose what you will do with such inspiration. People have complete free will in such matters. I went on, saying that at any point, I could happily ignore something in my head, and often do, for any number of reasons. Sometimes I'll assume I'll remember it, so I won't leap out of bed to write it down at three in the morning, or I'll decide it's really not that great, or I'll just be extremely lazy about it. And of course, there are countless more times when I do strive to express myself, but isn't that because I made the conscious choice to be an artist, so I understand that for me to be what I aspire to, I have to express myself? I could decide tomorrow that I'm going into accounting, and never pick up a pen, or pencil, or mouse, or keyboard, for any purpose that could be at all artistic or personally expressive again.

So, the essential argument was really "Born vs. Made," and it seems to me that talent is largely innate, but you have to have the opportunity and desire to become, say, the world's greatest writer -- it's not something that is predetermined for you. I mean, how many of the world's great novelists and philosophers are, or were, completely illiterate, and never had even the suspicion that they might have deeper talents? There are all kinds of people in the world who have talent, but don't recognize it, or for whatever reasons, don't bother to pursue it.

Anyhow, that (to me), was that. Broken and I had classes, so we excused ourselves, and made our way for the exit. I didn't even give it any more thought than that. The issue, to me, wasn't even an issue. I just carried on with my little life, singing my tune, and obsessing over whatever problems I definitely had (as you know, I'm always suffering from some problem or another... that's why the Daily Snivel is such good reading) at the time.

Oddly, however, about two weeks later, I was in the library, and that woman confronted me and said, "I've been thinking it over, and I think I've managed to pick apart your argument." I was taken rather aback, having not considered my stance to be much of an argument. If I'd known it had been, I probably would have put it together so carefully that you couldn't pick it apart. But anyway, I was intrigued and disturbed, so I prompted for an explanation. She said, "You can be both inspired, and choose to do something about it."

I blinked. I also paused. I thought it over for about two seconds, which ticked by with little announcement. "Isn't that," I said, "what I said?"

"No, it isn't!" she snapped, and turned away.
I scratched my head some, figuratively at least, and went upstairs to attend to whatever business, probably computer lab (meaning, e-mail) related, that had brought me to the library in the first place. And, sure, I commented on this with incredulity to Broken and friends later on, but this still wasn't that big a deal to me.

Then, last week, I was walking through the hall with my friend Iddy, both of us on break after our phonetic transcription test and seeking Jolt Cola, and I ran into her again, purely by chance, as happens in a school shared by many thousands of people. She apologized for being so rude, and explained that really what happened was that it was just an issue she took very seriously, but didn't at all mean for such harsh treatment to occur. And I was nonchalant and a little embarrassed, and just waved it away, and said it was fine. And for the most part, it was fine.

Then, yesterday, she found me at the bus stop, while I awaited the number 7 that would whisk me down Bank Street to my happy freak home. It was really awkward, moreso than usual. I wasn't really unkind, but certainly curt. She asked me how I was, and asked about Broken (forgetting her name, which was cool because we'd been feeling guilty for having forgotten hers), and to both I said fine, and then my bus came. We stopped talking for a couple of seconds, and I turned expectantly to my bus. I kept thinking, I should say something here, wish her a good night, or tell her to "Take care," or something, just to be friendly. But I didn't. She wasn't facing me anymore, so I turned around and got on the bus.

I've been trying to analyze this, and all I can figure is that, while I didn't have any particular difficulties with this person, or this situation, she insisted on blowing it out of proportion. And that made it decidedly awkward for me to try to reconcile. Ultimately I just didn't want to. Her reactions left me feeling uncomfortable and unfriendly, and really closed off. I mean, I feel bad that I reacted in a way that probably seemed cold, but I nevertheless did act that way, and can't change it now.

Strangers are funny people. They make me wish I could vanish in a puff of bats more often.

N o v e m b e r 18

I figure there are probably alternate universes where there are Robs running around, feeling smug and omnipotent as the world swoons and loves them (or, alternatively, said alternate earth finds such obnoxious narcissism rightfully grating), but you, luckily enough, get the universe where your Rob can survive for days on the slightest whisp of affection.

I take it where I can get it. Usually I do enough horrible things that I deserve worse.

But, for love, I will do tricks.

And for my next trick, I shall barely pass a calculus test before your very eyes...

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

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