And it's funny how irritating I find human behaviour sometimes, considering that I myself am so given to indulge in it every day as I do. Notice, for example, the fact that people love to spend their hard-earned weekends by spending their hard-earned savings; and yet they do this in a most baffling way. It usually begins with two people confronting one another with vague indifference towards that timeless question, "So, what do you want to do today?" Invariably, what people want to do is, "I don't know, what do you want to do today?" and so it goes on from there until it is agreed upon to go "shopping." Not, to say, shopping for something particular -- oh no no. Just... shopping. That is, wandering around aimlessly through market squares, shopping centres, mini malls, shops, streets, and of course all the while managing to get in my way whilst doing it. People who are shopping move very slowly, and very randomly change directions all of a sudden, as if they had no idea what they wanted or, really, what they were doing. Which they don't. Kids in candy stores (like my beloved Sugar Mountain in Toronto... mmm... I will come back to thee, my sweet sugary source) at least have the advantage because in general they know what they want (which is candy), and they know where to get it (which is said candy store). Adults, on the other hand, don't like candy quite so much, and they have more money than children do, so they just flit from store to store like badly dressed bees (wearing shorts and brown shoes and black socks pulled up to the knees) buzzing to gaudy flowers already full of other bees.

But I suppose I'm no better, because yesterday I went shopping. Yes indeed -- me. I mean, at least I knew what I wanted to buy, and proceeded directly to the store I needed to be within with this itinerary, but in the end it still must be said that I was wandering around a store with money in my pocket, a shopping cart before me, and I'll even admit I was probably goggling at the merchandise every bit as much as all the pampered suburbanites surrounding me who weren't on any missions of particular import. For you see, I was once again at IKEA and, man, did I ever need to buy me a curtain rod. Of course, this was far from a boring old foray into drudgery and consumeristic false values, like a life which is so empty that only buying new things can brighten it up. No indeed, I just needed a curtain rod to hold up my curtain (I neglected to buy two the last time, mistaking the insert rod in the package for two actual rods). Sure, it can be rather enjoyable to spend money on goodies, but if I enjoyed myself at all (and I did), then it was because I was accompanied by my friends Broken, Pixiegirl, and the famous Miss Charlotte.

Broken needed curtains and rods, Pixiegirl wanted to buy some furniture for her cluttered yet minimally furnished room, and Charlotte hadn't been to IKEA in yonks and wanted to see me before she left for the great expanses of the north this afternoon as part of her training at work (she will be gone for two weeks or so, which means she will miss both Canada day and her birthday here... sigh, Canada day just won't be as fun without Charlotte about...), so a complete shopping set were we. I must admit, it's disturbing to think about just how much money we spent yesterday; in the sense that if we four twenty-two year old adults could fork over several hundred dollars for several hundred pounds of stuff, then IKEA, faithfully gleaned by the middle-aged, overweight, overindulgent masses (like, I suppose, our generation's parents...), must make more money each weekend than a blockbuster summer movie. Which is why the Swiss should never be trusted, of course. In any case, I came there for a curtain rod, and I left there with a curtain rod. And, well, a lamp. But what could I do? It was six dollars for a posable black desklamp (although I also bought a cast iron base for it, which incidentally weighs more than the entire bag of transparent, dark blue plates which Charlotte and I bought). It's great. Just be glad that I couldn't justify buying the beautiful black halogen floor lamp I spied there. It was taller than I was, and it was only for the fact that I have more lights than a Christmas tree (literally; you should see all the Christmas lights in my room) that I talked myself down from that precipice. Pixiegirl, however, did buy one, and it looks smashing. Pixiegirl bought a lot of things, of course, which was why we ultimately decided to rent a van.

A big van it was, too. It was a huge ass Ford cargo van, white like the belly of a skinhead, and entirely more imposing. Charlotte, being the driver among us, was awed by its magnitude. It's hard to describe exactly how big this van was, but if you can imagine something big, well, it was bigger. We towered over pickup trucks, minivans, and sport utility wagons all. We were almost as tall as bus, and tearing down the Queensway as we were, the sense of power and invulnerability was like an intoxicant. We sped, we cruised, and we cranked up the air conditioning. If I ever have the misfortune of having to roar through a crowded city of vegetable stands, men moving panes of glass, crates of chickens and little old ladies crossing the street while pursued either by mobsters or the entire police force of Ottawa-Carleton, then I want to do so in this van, because I could plow through every last one of those obstacles suffering no damage save possibly remorse. And a remorseful free man is still a free man. I wouldn't want to parallel park in that thing (if we'd backed up, it probably would have beeped!), but I was pleased nonetheless by our ability to just take off in a vehicle like responsible adults or something. When we dropped our new purchases off at the house, Charlotte and I left Pixiegirl and Broken to drop the van back off at IKEA. This was a fine thing, since it meant that we had some quality time together before she left, although not too much, since she was due to go to see Billy Graham that night.

Yes, Billy Graham. He's in Ottawa at present (tonight being, I think, his last night), and for the past several nights has been addressing crowds in excess of twenty thousand about how the souls of Canadians are being endangered by our country's high-tech world of progress and secular values. Well. Much as I hate people who talk about morality as if they knew God personally, Charlotte's older sister is still super religious girl, and as Charlotte's company has a box at the Corel Centre, Charlotte took her sister to see Mr. Graham last night. Which in a way is kind of amusing; to ease Charlotte's misgivings, I said to her yesterday afternoon, "Well, just think of it this way. When you're looking out at twenty thousand people crammed into tiny chairs, sit back, stretch your legs, and think, 'I may not be a believer, but I've got better seats.'" On the way back to her apartment, I talked with Charlotte about my current state of malaise. I told her that I was going to miss her when she left for Germany in the fall, and that in general I was feeling isolated by the number of my friends who were moving away from me each year... and we discussed our viewpoints about that whole issue. Essentially, she really does want to see the world, and I can't blame her for that. Most people feel the same way. Me, well, all I want to see are the people I love; and if that means I get to travel while doing it, well, all the better, but I'd still rather just have everyone I care about with me all the time, and who cares if ancient civilizations, master artists, dead kings and other countries are neglected by just me?

But that's just me. In any case, Charlotte and I retired back to her pad, and played with the ferrets until she and her sister had to leave; at which point I walked them to the bus stop and sped along my merry way back home to mount a large number of curtain rods (if drywall could scream..., well, the neighbours would be pounding on their ceiling with brooms trying to get me to be quiet, because it would probably sound like I was murdering someone). Since then I've just been keeping busy in my own quiet way; cleaning and fussing and sleeping and writing and talking on the phone. Charlotte dropped by this afternoon with an old, old friend from high school, whom neither of us had seen, in, I don't think, the time that it has actually been since high school. All in all a quiet weekend, which is not to last, because I have to go out and slay some foes and clean some clothes and hopefully even write a few letters.

Just for posterity's sake, I thought I'd link to the website of the "New H'Tog," which is the house which took form when Lesleigh and seven others left the old house at the beginning of May. I haven't seen the house, or the website, yet myself, so I'm looking forward to checking it out. Anyway, this might give you a slightly better idea of where I'm coming from. Enjoy.

It's kooky to think of it now, but I do distinctly recall that one of the reasons I actually began the Daily Snivel was as a sort of showcase for whining about the fact that my dear friend and tentative love and skillful stalker Lilith was hurting my feelings through the process of being entirely too busy to talk to me and make me feel loved and needed (which, when you're a whiny, co-dependent, emotional and depressive manchild like myself, is tantamount to putting poison in my self-esteem every night). And yes, you read it all, as we suffered through misunderstandings of all degrees of magnitudes, and ultimately the period of fighting we underwent thanks to the fact that, well, I'm stupid and do stupid things. And so it was that our romance was ended; Lilith assumed that I didn't want a serious relationship with her, and eventually grew weary of waiting, and I assumed that she wasn't ready for a serious relationship with me, and never asked. So, dramatic irony aside, I spe nt a great deal of last Spring (and let's not forget the summer) thoroughly unhappy and wretched; a state which I somehow found myself diverted from through the no-less destructive circumstances of haplessly falling in love with my best friend, Charlotte, and utterly making a mess out of yet another friendship (which has, beyond all reason and probability, recovered and now has never been better, thank you very much). And, with any luck at all, you were here, reading about it as it happened. So, such things as tragedy and loss being the norm around here, let me at least thrill you with a tale of reconciliation and hope such as I have not seen in years. It all begins aboot (yes, "aboot") a month ago (and you can read all about it in my archives) when I chanced to run into Lilith while house-hunting.

Although at some level of my guilt and obsessiveness I've been intending to put a serious effort back into the friendship shared by Lilith and myself for the past year, for the most part it has been far easier to simply put it off with that nervous fear of rejection you've all come to know quite well through me. Granted, I would certainly call Lilith every couple of months, and drop her a postcard when I had a chance (say, when I went to visit Clorinda in Spokane), and otherwise walk around with great intentions but little ambition. Which by no means helped me sleep at night -- it's been a point of much sorrow and agony in my wee life that someone I so recently loved as much as (my philandering heart being what it is and all) I could love anyone was not only on the most theoretical terms of friendship with. yes, she was always happy when I called, and I was always pretty upbeat when we actually spoke; but nevertheless, we didn't speak, to say, terribly often, and it wasn't like the effort was partic ularly great, nor was two-sided. Even so, I had been steadily composing a letter which began in April and ended last week (consider it an eight-thousand word term paper), as an attempt to include my old friend on the many transitional and monumental circ umstances of this (and you have to agree) bewilderingly eventful ("interesting," as the old curse goes) year. Seeing her on the street only prompted me to proceed further and more hastily in its completion (like Darth Vader arriving at the second Death Star), particularly given that I promised I'd be mailing it very soon, and the hint of a dubious expression she took on made me realize that I'd better deliver on that promise immediately. And "immediately" could be loosely interpreted as "three or four weeks," sure. But anyway, as per week's rantings, I did, in fact, mail this letter at long last, stuffed as the envelope was with many fine goodies which had been waiting in a not-insignificant pile in my room for the chance to be presented to her.

Seeing Phil again, as well, has also prompted me to make some serious efforts with my friendship with Lilith. Because Phil, ex-girlfriend to beat all ex-girlfriends that she is, is a tragic example of what sorts of monstrous unpleasantries there are which can forever dominate the destinies of two people who used to be friends, and more, and who now have gone for so long without communicating that only hostility and fear remain. For sure Lilith and I are still friends, technically, but I could forese e the day coming when it wouldn't necessarily be so. Maybe years from now, when she was a famous dancer and I was a famous world dominationist, we'd for some reason both be walking to the store to buy milk, say, and meet up on the corner. And in that moment of reunion, all we'd be able to do is stammer and look at the sidewalk, and mumble vague pleasantries as politely as possible while still providing a fast and direct escape route out of that social nightmare. Quite frankly, that scenario frightens me. I mean, there's no reason Lilith and I shouldn't be best friends, right now. Everything which has come between us is the result of misunderstandings and miscommunication -- of not talking enough, and not saying enough when we do talk. There was no betrayal, and there was no abandonment, and there were no ill intentions. Only two stupid people who loved each other, who each did the wrong things, and said the wrong things, until only two strong personalities and the tatters of a friendship remained.

And you know what? I think that's all going to change. Naively optimistic and idealistic though I might be, Lilith has received my package, and for the first time in over a year, she actually called me. Indeed. And I was too shocked to even be petty and think about how she never, ever called when we were best friends.... even now none of that seems to matter -- because she called. I came home Monday afternoon, tired and hot (they'd actuall deemed it necessary to send we the good bees at Agriculture Canada home early, on account of the fact that most of our building is not air conditioned, and the heat and humidity levels were considered inhumane; or, at the very least, unsafe...), and allowed myself the indulgence of eating for the first time that day, and then checking my messages. And, quite surprisingly, the voice which sang forth from my unsuspecting receiver was Lilith's. I very nearly dropped the phone with surprise, except that suddenly I was squeezing it out of a feeling of longing. And really, it wasn't even a particularly momentous message -- Lilith explained that she'd gotten my package, and unfortunately was working two shifts (she is employed at some pub or other until she goes away to school in the fall), which meant she wouldn't be able to talk right away. Still, she had at least called to say that, and I must admit I was delighted, and yet slightly battered and emotionally distraught. It isn't often, obviously, that I hear from her, and I found it emotionally overwhelming to suddenly hear her voice again, tinny and recorded though it was. The last time we'd shared any sort of telecommunications interaction was, I think, Christmas, when I took the time to give her a dingle at home whilst I was visiting my sister in Toronto. It's hard to describe precisely why I became so giddy and excited, but a lot of it simply had to do with the fact that, after all this time, Lilith had actually chosen to make that call. She had sounded a little surprised by my message (although normally I am infamous for clever and long answering machine messages, this one was kind of whiny and pathetic.. and it was deliberately recorded that way, but because I was also really whiny and pathetic when I recorded the message, it sounds rather authentic), but seemed, as I can best infer by reading between metaphorical lines (which is what I always do... obsess over word choice, intonations, any emotive or expressive verbal cue that might let me deeply read into sit uations far past the point where any accuracy can be assumed), happy to have received the letter I'd sent, and as well she promised to call again. This was the part that really touched me. Not just call... but call again. So that we could actually talk. Who knows? Maybe, somehow, she and I would even find the time to get together, too. Even thinking about it made me pine (it's funny how I can say sincerely and sappily say things which, had the words merely been said by anyone else in the world, would have sounded bitingly sarcastic).

I had coffee with Caira and Mephisto later that night, and was practically bubbling over the brim with excitement over this small detail. Caira, realist and judge of character that she is, tried to reassure me and bring me a little closer to reality by pointing out that, if Lilith had been one to call all that much, we wouldn't exactly be in this situation right now where her calling me in response to a letter had become something of a minor joy in my life, but I was not to be put off my hope (and certainly Caira, naysayer though she can be, hoped that Lilith would not disappoint me, either), and such it was that when I got home yesterday afternoon, I received yet another message from Lilith. And yes, I know, here you are thinking -- so? But, really and truly, I couldn't believe my ears, and once again I was happy, even though she was again leaving a message to say that, unfortunately, she was working until late at night once again and still couldn't talk. She did, after all, promise to call me again when she was free. It's such a small thing, but to me quite meaningful and significant -- you see, if Lilith is just calling, even if it's only to chat quickly and subsequently (upon my not being home) leave a message to the effect that she won't be home and will call later, well, it implies a whole lot of things. First of all, that she sincerely wants to talk. She's making this genuine effort to get ahold of me, even when she won't be around long, to talk about my letter. Neither of us are easy people to get ahold of, but she's still making a great effort to get ahold of me. It would be far easier just to say, "Well, call me when you can," and hope that I'll manage to do so when she's in, and yet she's doing so much more than that. It really makes me think that our having a chance to speak to each other, and maybe even work out some time to spend together, is actually quite important to her, as important as it is to me. For so long, I've felt like there has been something missing from my life; in fact, a lot of things. Lately, though, I've been exceptionally lonely, and feeling more and more isolated and unhappy all the time. And I have to admit, since falling out with Lilith last year, I haven't truly felt complete, or at peace. I've always regretted the fights we've had, and I've always wished for a way to fix the problems with our friendship. So now I'm wondering if perhaps Lilith isn't feeling much the same way? Perhaps my letter was a kind of impetus upon her to get our friendship back in order. Maybe she realizes, too, how special and irreplacable our friendship, as it used to be, is, and how important it is to have the trust, and the intimacy, and the warm support our friendship brings each of us, back.

I really like to think this. With every thought that I have of my old, dear friend, I anticipate our next conversation; I'd love to tell her myself, with my own voice, just how much I've missed her. I mean, I suppose I said it sufficiently enough in the letter, but I feel that this is a sentiment I physically need to speak; and maybe, just maybe, have reciprocated, in the sweet, gentle, long-missed voice of that friend who, even now, I still deeply care for, and even, perhaps, love.

Incidentally, I have H'Tog gossip for all of you (but particularly for Caira, and I apologize for not having any the other night when you asked). It seems that my old residence of just a few weeks ago, has since collapsed. Just last week, in fact. It seems that, in a (legal) move to effect certain repairs which our evil, incompetent, insane nazi landlord has endlessly promised and never delivered upon, the residents of House H'Tog withheld their June rent payment. Unfortunately, this did not particularly move or sway the old bastard in any way; he simply cut the power to the building in retaliation. With no power and no other leverage (legalities aside), it seemed that there was absolutely nothing to do but leave, and leave fast. Dignity be damned. The remaining goths, freaks, fetish-types and the transsexual who was living in my old bedroom (um...) have all split up into small little groups, and gone off their separate ways. And I feel rather torn about the whole thing. At once I'm deeply sorry that it happened; for all of my bad experiences, and even some of the ways I was manipulated and downright screwed by certain members of that abortive community, I didn't wish any ill on anybody, and it sucks to be made effectively homeless, especially on sudden notice (imagine being put into a situation where, tomorrow, you have absolutely no choice but to find a new apartment and move into it right away, with no time to prepare or pack or save your money), especially by a landlord whose answer to difficulties are to remedy them in the most illegal ways possible. At the same time, I'm definitely glad I moved out of there when I did. Cliff, who was no longer in charge by the time I left anyway, puffed and fumed over the fact that Kincaid, Pixiegirl, Ben and I were moving out, feeling (I guess) "betrayed" by our desire not to live there anymore, but as it turns out, we apparently could not have picked a better time.

And that, I guess, is that.

Incidentally, according to my friend, he was on the precipice of exhaustion late one summer's eve when some strange compulsion seized him, and thus it was that he randomly punched the addresss "www.secret.org" into his web browser. Well, he was rewarded with ambiguity, and a small clue. From there he entered the address "www.cabal.org" and found himself greatly intrigued, but exhausted and unable to proceed. So he enlisted my help, assuming I knew something about this wacky medium of voyeurism and exhibitionism and now, apparently, mysticism. Long live the freemasons.

Message #272 (276 is last):
Date: Mon Jun 22 08:43:21 1998
From: gray@ (Gray Priest)
Subject: There is no cabal rob.
 
 
cabal.org
 
Registrant:
The Cabal (CABAL5-DOM)
   303 Cedarvale Avenue
   Toronto, ON M4C-4K3
   CA
 
   Domain Name: CABAL.ORG
 
   Administrative Contact, Technical Contact, Zone Contact:
      Dodge, Val  (VD215)  val@VEX.NET
      +1 416 429 4344 (FAX) +1 416 429 4154
   Billing Contact:
      Dodge, Val  (VD215)  val@VEX.NET
      +1 416 429 4344 (FAX) +1 416 429 4154
 
   Record last updated on 22-May-97.
   Record created on 22-May-97.
   Database last updated on 22-Jun-98 03:52:44 EDT.
 
   Domain servers in listed order:
 
   NS.ICOMM.CA                  198.96.119.203
   NS.LONER.COM                 209.47.148.155
 
secret.org
 
 
Registrant:
The Secret Organization (SECRET-DOM)
   7529 Greenbelt Rd. Suite 990 Greenbelt,MD 20770
 
   Domain Name: SECRET.ORG
 
   Administrative Contact:
      Morris, Bill  (BM196)  intersec@SECRET.ORG
      (410) 408-9351
   Technical Contact, Zone Contact:
      Operations Center, InterSec Network  (INO2)  noc@DATACOM.NET
      800) 647-3597
 
   Record last updated on 19-Feb-98.
   Record created on 14-Nov-94.
   Database last updated on 22-Jun-98 03:52:44 EDT.
 
   Domain servers in listed order:
 
   SERVER0.DATACOM.NET          206.220.140.2
   SERVER1.DATACOM.NET          205.166.92.2

Message #273 (276 is last):
Date: Mon Jun 22 13:07:14 1998
From: inms.webmaster@ (INMS Webmaster)
Subject: the cabal
 
 
The cabal is a group of mages and magicians that stick together and
learn spells etc... aspiring to become warlocks and the lot to protect
their families, shops, homes...kind of like a mini-neighbourhood.
 
The two servers have different names but are linked since the second
page refers back to the first page ( located in the source code). So...
 
Perhaps there is a rebel among the cabals voicing his opinions on the
fact that the cabal is falling apart.  Perhaps there is someone trying
to hide the cabal from discovery while another member is trying to
advertise and find new members. Maybe there will be war.
 
Nevertheless these "silly net geeks"  have succeeded in sucking many
people in with these unusual web pages.
 
One more thing to note is that many of the "cabal" pages have restricted
access...curious?
 
I would be very interested to know how your "friend" came accross these
pages.
 
 
yours,
Melanie Muise

Message #274 (276 is last):
Date: Mon Jun 22 15:56:19 1998
From: Z@ (Z)
Subject: There IS a Cabal
 
 
My Newest Friend, Mister [F.]:
 
I come not with answers.  I come rather with another piece of the puzzle
about the Cabal.
 
See this link:  http://www.obscure.org/cabal/
 
I think you'll agree that there must be a cabal here, eh?
 
And while I have your attention, I will slather you with gratuitous,
brown-nosing compliments, and ask the obligatory intrusive question.
 
But seriously, here goes:
 
Your site is really cool.  I want to be a writer someday; in fact, I
guess I should say that I AM a writer and one day hope to be paid for
it.  Amazon.com does not recognize the ISBN number to your book.  You
are one of a dwindling number of intelligent souls.
 
And the question:  What fresh produce is available in the Rob F.
refrigerator at this very moment?
 
Thank you for playing,

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

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