First of all, I feel as if I owe you all something for so patiently dealing with my snits, sulks, and general sullenness, as expressed largely by a disinclination to write anything down for tragically long periods of time. This has been both a wonderful and terrible time for me, with successes (like my many wonderful job offers) and failures (like having to drop my computer science course), and often I was tired and stressed and it seemed so difficult to want to spend time chained to my computer. Then I bought a new computer, and lost myself for awhile in configuring it, until finally I came to the point where this new monstrosity lent itself quite clearly to reformulating my web page. I'm probably going to spend the next month or two, whenever I have a free block of time (between school, work, my so-called social life and the second contract for the government which I labour at in my time at home) redesigning my site, deciding what of its content to keep, and what has become old and silly. Keep in mind that I started this web page when I was nineteen; I've done a lot of growing and changing, and not everything in this site continues to accurately reflect the Rob you know now.

With that in mind, I decided today to make due reparations to you all in exchange for forgiveness and continued attempts to digest my ramblings. I mean, let's not call this an unconditional surrender. At any rate, you must understand the extreme lengths my guilt has driven me to. In keeping with my newfound spirit of change -- and of course my guilty conscience -- today I subjected myself to the inequities of photography for your benefit. That's right -- I smiled pretty for the camera. This is the first serious attempt I've had to have a picture taken of me in several years, but I wanted to place something current on my website for the ages, so I travelled all the way to Ottawa's Voyageur bus terminal and stuffed myself into a photo booth. Three dollars, and three minutes, later, I got a half-decent roll of pictures. It's funny how a cheap photobooth can produce more flattering pictures than the six hundred dollar camera that I normally use. The SLR just makes me look fat and goofy. In these pictures I think my extremely foul mood is illustrated rather well. Note the lack of smiling.

I like these photos because I look startled and confused, which is essentially how I always look. In a day or two I'll put this into my updated gallery of rogues, but I wanted the image to be previewed now. My disclaimer is that my lips have been badly chapped for the past week, so they look even bigger and redder than normal (which I admit is still a state of extremely big and red). I put together these photographs in a clever way. The black and white set is a mirror reversal of the colour roll. You see, whenever you look in a mirror you're seeing the reverse image of yourself, so not unlike hearing your own voice, the whole world sees a different "you" than the image you see in your reflections. Because they're reversed, the black and white images represent fairly accurately how I see myself. The colour images are how the world actually sees me.

So now you know how I look, and this is my penance for being such a bad Rob. I immensely dislike photos of myself, but at least having full control of the shots I am not utterly horrified by how these pictures look. That said, I was overcompensating for my chapped, dry, raw lips in the first picture, and look rather more "pouty" than I intended. I've been feeling really unattractive and hopeless lately, which is another inspirational element in my sudden need to have my picture taken -- a kind of desensitization if you will. I also wanted to objectify myself into a very visual, physical object, different from the sensitive, introspective figure which all too often is overly beautified by well-meaning observers. And, OK, I have the hope that someday I shall be thought of as "cute." But if I'm ugly, then I'm ugly, and the whole world should see me for who I am, in as accurate a way as possible. That's why I included the entire roll instead of just selecting the most flattering image possible (and believe me, being the master of Photoshop that I am, the temptation to purty myself up was like a strong, burning itch that begs for action).

I hope you're not disappointed that I'm such a clean-cut young man these days.

In thinking about the rest of my stories, I realize that I can't begin to explain my grief and hard feelings tonight (although an objective observer would tend to say "Rob, you're overreacting") -- so I think I'll leave that self-indulgent list of complaints for the next entry. Still, certainly I can't complain about everything in my life. On Friday I approved a contract proposal at work for a third contract which promises to yield about twenty-five hundred dollars for twenty days' work. This sounds like a fortune until I point out that twenty work days is the same as saying "a month," and suddenly it's not so much of a Rob's ransom as it is a swell wage. But it actually works out to $16.66 an hour, which is a shocking amount of money when you consider it involves little more than sitting in a chair and clicking a mouse in various, creative ways. Which is really something I'm inclined to do anyway. I feel supremely desired in the professional sense; my reputation has become almost unmanagably terrific at work. I fear that I shall be one day thought of as some kind of miracle worker, festooned with offers of employment. This scares me for the reason that I know how fallible I am, and the more I am admired and the better I am paid, the greater the chance that I shall fail to meet someone's grand expectations of me, and then the legend will come crashing to earth. The good part about being goofy, shy, awkward and withdrawn is that you can make people underestimate you. Like Clark Kent. Conversely, when people think you're Superman, all you can do is ultimately disappoint them. Ah, the dangers of pedestals.

Oh well. I can't honestly lament the state of how much in demand I am. I like money and external validation -- and being hired for job after job is a kind of external validation that can't be beat. That is, "can't be beat," by anything except smooches and friendly bosoms. I like the balance, however, of being sought-after in stark contrast to the terrible day I had at work last week, where it seemed I could do nothing right. I forgot a set of crucially important papers at home, and I wasted two hours during lunch (and beyond) running home and back to retrieve them. The shame I felt was crushing. I stayed at work until 8 to make up for lost time, all the while cursing my foolish brain for leading me astray by means of common forgetfulness.

My weekend was simple, and quiet -- which is part of the problem I will be whining about tomorrow -- although I kept myself quite busy. I am off to bed for now, though -- so for now, rejoice for I have returned! And additionally, if you pass by a wishing well or public fountain at any point soon, toss in a coin or two on my behalf, and make a nice wish about me. I especially like wishes about smooches.

Today I wanted to showcase my pride and my affection for the two sweetest people in my world. These are the people who bring me joy and comfort and endless happiness, although in their hands they unwittingly hold the power to hurt me because of the esteem I hold their opinions and actions in. I can't imagine my life as it stands now without either of them, counting them as I do among my closest, most precious friends in the world. Of course, I'm referring to Broken, my friend, my roommate, my sweet love, and my partner in crime, and also my as-yet unnamed friend (who has been set to the task of devising a pseudonym for herself, because no one ever likes the names I find for them) who has been inspiring to me in her strength and courage, and at the same time has bears a loneliness and sweetness which deeply touches me.

I'm super duper proud of Broken in general, because she's such a dedicated student, because she's a smart cookie and a bastion of stability and sanity (although in more of a reciprocal sense -- she is my nepenthe, and I am hers), and because she's a gifted poet. Today I am simply set to burst from the amazing awe and esteem I hold her in, because Broken found out yesterday that she is officially the winner of the 1999 George Johnston Poetry Contest. Well, she's quick to point out that she actually shares these laurels, tied for first place as she is, but I don't see it that way at all. When Broken previewed the sheaf of poems she had selected and fretted over for submission, I already knew at the time that she would win. While I dabble in poetic indulgence, I know that my strength is really in prose. Broken on the other hand is on her way towards becoming a poetic master of considerable esteem. There isn't a reading series in Ottawa which hasn't featured her at least once, and her name is inseperably bound with expertly phrased imagery, experimention and exploration, and clever insights charged with powerful emotions but lacking in empty indulgence.
The poetry contest is run each year at Carleton, and accepts untold numbers of submissions from hopeful poets, all vying for the fame and external validation that comes with victory and a modest (but genuinely negotiable) cheque. This win came at the precise moment in Broken's life when she truly needed glory and cheer in her life -- she has been tremendously ill for the past week and a half with a flu and bronchitis, and has been either trapped in the house, or worn and weary from the trials of guiltily crawling to classes she doesn't wish to miss any further. When you're sick, you tend to feel frumpy, horrible, incurable and therefore frustrated and depressed, and although it was cruel of her professor to tell her of her win at the beginning of her class (because she had to stifle her uncontrollable glee and excitement for an hour and a half with the restraint of someone who wants to fly away and buzz like a woman with a wind-up motor in her bum), she nevertheless is a great poet, and now she has the definitive validation to prove it to herself.

As for my other dear, sweet friend -- well, first of all, she sweetly and gladly gave me her blessing to show off her picture in my soon-to-be-unveiled gallery of rogues, so I shall preview it, like my own, for you here.

We're at such a strange and tenuous moment in our friendship; when, knowing full well of my increasingly powerful feelings for her, she continues to accept and care for me, but because I'm the neurotic and awful person I am, I fear the possibility of rejection, and there are times I feel alone and isolated from her. This can make me feel terribly low; recently she and I both have been such harried little beavers that we haven't been able to make or commit to plans with each other for several weeks; we see one another in a class each week, but any kind of quality time has been impossible, and I was left feeling sad and neglected and very, very lonely. The other day, though, I paid her a visit at work while I was on my way to school, and she completely surprised me with such a reassuring, precious, special gesture as to almost send me to tears. She urgently beckoned me to her, and while I shyly stumbled forward, she declared, "I got you a present." Well, every last raincloud thundering away above my head burst in a poof of shame. She told me how sick she had been lately, spending all weekend incapacitated with exhaustion when she wasn't working, and yet somehow felt it was important to give me something. I mean, that kind of gesture just goes beyond any kind of expectation or desire; all I could think of was how unnecessary a present really was, when all I wanted and needed had been given to me in just that one, perfect moment -- I knew I was missed. When someone makes me feel special and important, even in a simple, small way, my unhealthy little ego flourishes like a phototropic flower stretching towards the noon sun. My friend told me that she got me a little present because she hadn't seen me in awhile, and that it was important we get together soon, so we loosely made plans to meet the next day at a pub at Carleton. I didn't want to tie her up for too long, so I excused myself, shaken and happy and torn between feeling small and shameful, or mighty and twenty feet tall like a solid gold Homer Simpson.

Instead I caught a bus to school, idiotic grin etched upon my face, while I thought of my friend -- my special, wonderful friend -- and tried to avoid any sudden sentimental blubbering.

I don't know if I'm explaining the cause of my happiness well enough. The fact that my friend had a desire to get me a present was touching and in fact quite overwhelmingly so, but this was truly secondary to the reassurance she gave me that she had simply been thinking of me. I mean, rationally I know I'm important to her, and she (in exasperation but concern) wishes she could plug me into her thoughts so that I could understand how important I really am in her life, but she is admittedly not good at giving people attention and reminders of affection, nor should it be her job to make me feel good about myself. This is something I am gradually finding the strength to take from within myself -- I don't mind confessing that there are times I still need help. So, knowing that I was low, and while thinking of me and missing me, she got me a small present. Now, I use small in a relative way. For her, it was a simple gift, inspired by something I'd said a long time ago, but in my mind I was being given a treasure. My friend had found for me some tapers of sealing wax, which I use in quantity and am always on the lookout for because I bought a seal this fall and I love making letters and invitations bearing my imprinted mark. Sealing wax is actually pretty expensive, but what was really fancy about this present was its origin in a thoughtful act by someone sweetly remembering me. As I have remarked before, pretty pieces of glass, painted blue, are a far better present than even the moon when given in the sincere spirit of love and affection.

The contents of Wednesday, February 10, 1999 were as follows:
One (1) Perfect Day.

My friend's father has seen fit to bequeath his old manual Pentax SLR camera to her, which is a dandy of a gift by all accounts. The camera is probably about twenty years old, but it is in excellent working order and -- let's be realistic -- nothing is better for preserving memories and stealing souls than a well-loved manual camera. She freely admits knowing nothing about the operation of such a complicated doohickey, and since in regards to such things I know only marginally more myself, we planned to spend today figuring out its proper operation. Although her roommate is a self-confessed expert of matters photographic, he has been less than encouraging of her desire to learn how to shoot a manual camera, and in fact has actively discouraged her, claiming that she'll never figure out its intricacies. While I have no idea why he'd say such a thing (my friend being a bright, inquisitive, quick study, and a wickedly talented artist in every other respect), when he took us to the camera store today to get her camera primed for action, we asked silly questions to the service technicians (OK, so neither of us recognized the self-timer on the camera for what it was) without shame while he tried to assert his technical superiority by pointing out lenses and contributing further naysaying.

Once the battery (powering the shutter) was installed, I gave my friend a roll of film and showed her how to load it, which she did quite expertly and without me having to employ my grubby hands at all (I myself needed a full day of unwittingly shooting a roll of shots which were never actually exposed to anything before figuring out for myself how to load my camera without the film slipping from the spool). We knew very little about the camera's powers, but I tried my darndest to outline a few basics about the aperture ring, shutter speed, and so on (reminding me of my older brother's attempts to initiate me some months ago -- he is truly a masterful photographer) while we gleefully wasted film. I wanted to give her a roll of processsing pre-paid film so that she wouldn't feel guilty for experimenting and learning -- she took careful notice of the techniques and settings she employed while shooting today, but all fastidious observation aside, it's important to give someone the freedom to play.
Every winter Ottawa is marked by the celebration of Winterlude, which features a variety of outdoorsy occupations, like ice-sculpting, ice-skating, and but of course the consumption of deep-fried greasy things. Ottawa boasts the world's largest skating rink, that being the Rideau Canal waterway which stretches across the eastern province as a means of ensuring shipping in times of war with America. Bloody Americans. Can't trust 'em. Oh well.
In any case, it freezes solid like any responsible amount of water in sub-zero temperatures, and people then see fit to skate upon it. This afternoon, my friend an I walked leisurely along the canal, taking photos of any and every trivial bit of scenery to catch our beady eyes, when we finally stopped at a collection of ice scuptures which were also immortalized for posterity.

During the course of our stroll, I found myself in the delightful position of being able to relax. I can sometimes feel nervous or uncertain in the company of someone I deeply care about, again for the reason that I fear rejection, and I spend too much time analyzing every conversation and context, thinking about what is happening, what this means, and what will hapen next. I hadn't really spent any quality time with my friend in a couple of weeks, and this was a day I have been anticipating and awaiting for entirely too long. Simply put, I was confident that so much had been built up that I'd spend the entire day nervous and jittery, but instead I laughed and joked and smiled more than I've been quantifiably known to in weeks. I felt good. I felt wanted. I made sure that my friend felt every bit as precious. I even told her, that there was no one in the world I'd rather spend time with, although (and she and Broken know this) I treasure the time I could spend with both my friend, or Broken, equally.

I could sense how happy and relaxed my friend was, too. She felt silly for taking pictures of ridiculous eyesores (we saw this amazing red frowning snowman brandishing an axe on someone's fire escape -- it was a homemade construction and I'd give it an award if I could), but I tried to shake the vote of no confidence instilled upon her by her roommate, and encourage her to take pictures of anything she bloody well wanted to. It was her camera, and her film, on her time. I gladly followed along. We had a brief encounter with an ex-boyfriend of hers, whom she regards with the same apprehension and nervousness that I associate with Phil, but luckily he didn't see her while we shared the same pub, so it was an experience that could be soothed away. My friend is a mighty survivor, and is strong in ways I could never be, but she's a human being with human frailties (read: feelings), and few things are as painful as an enounter with an ex-lover you can no longer speak to. I'm sufficiently fun and distracting however, to chase away the worst of memories, and my friend's relative lack of obsessive tendencies allowed her to calm down and smile and carry on with our afternoon.

We spent a lot of time at home today; I had finally found some crickets which needed to be introduced to a trio of hungry treefrogs living with me, so after we'd had our fill of photography, we stopped by my house simply to put the little brown monsters into an aquarium filled with starving green monsters. Fortunately for our plot, however, the allure of herbal teas, cartoons on cable, junk food, and my warm, tastefully decorated room kept us cozily sitting indoors for most of the afternoon. Broken joined us in my room, and we continued to relax the day away, basking in the sugary, tingly pleasure of each other's fascinating company while television tried its chattery best to entertain us. I even ran to the corner store just to make the most of our sudden, unanimous, craving for Jos Louis. At one point my friend stretched out fully onto my bed, closed her eyes, and but for the fun she was having would certainly have fallen asleep. I was quite wonderfully moved by the sweet, relaxed smile upon her face, and the sensational contentment this day had brought us. It was an exquisite treat to think that simply being with me, and hanging out in my room, was enough to make her so obviously happy. I gave in to temptation, assembled my camera, and squeezed off a few exposures of her merely lying in my bed and smiling. Beautiful. She paid me a mighty fine compliment last week, remarking that any time spent in my bedroom was gone in a seeming instant, because she always had so much fun when she came over. My descendants, going through the attic and finding the pictures that I took today, are going to have no idea who this person was, someday, but I'm quite perfectly happy knowing that her contentment, and that smile, will be eternal.

I'm not sure exactly why we decided that leaving for our 7 o'clock class was a sound and proper idea to fixate upon, but we did in fact go. I think we've gotten into the habit -- having a friend in a class is great incentive for good attendance, but I was pleased to think she was at least tempted to stay with me. All told, if I had a quarter and had stumbled across a wishing well, this is the day I would have wished for. It was perfect. I feel so content, so special, so loved.

I do have a small regret, which is that we never properly said goodbye tonight. She called her roommate for a ride home, because she was feeling sick and tired after such a long day, and insisted that I at least get a ride to the Ottawa/Hull border with them. My departure was rushed, however, and I needed to get out of the car quickly to catch a bus. I took off unceremoniously, thinking about hugging her, and wishing I had. It's difficult, in a car, with a sourpuss sitting beside her, to properly express affection. I guess I can take comfort in the fact that she, Broken and I have an "art day" planned for Thursday, so I can deliver a full-on, sappy, extra-loving hug in just a matter of hours.

Now I'm going to bed, disgustingly happy.

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

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