sad_romantic epitome of incomprehensibility Sorrows_of_young_e_o_i, etc., with hopeful hopeless crushes: High school (grades 7-9): -M., inspiration for my character Melodia, and Merissa before that. At the Weird Christian School, altar of holy devotion and unholy desires. Ah, my heart. Ah, her triangle breasts. (Not an exact triangle, that would be strange.) -Peter, who doesn't have an equivalent in any of my fiction that I know of. He's the first of my draws to non-Canadian accents that I remember. I recall him insisting that people in South African, his home country, wore "noh-mal clothes", and later boasting about skateboarding on the "haw-way" (highway). Other high school (grades 10-11): -Maybe Eliezer? Who knows anymore. -Anne-Marie or Marie-Anne at that summer camp, when I'd just turned fifteen. CEGEP (ages 17-18): -R. from the summer camp when we were both staff. We painted a mural together on the front of a cabin and I wrote a poem about that scene. The crush crushed my heart the hardest since the days of M. In his that case I was angry at his girlfriend, actually angry: why her? I was closer to his age! She was just sixteen! Irrational, but I don't think I ever took it out on her directly. And then an echo of her turned up in my story for class that fall, one of the few stories I've written that might be in the horror genre, sort of: guy is fighting in some vague World War 3, vaguely in North America. He fears nuclear war, which doesn't happen, but then he finds out his friend is a murderer. Which clearly relates to working at a summer camp and having an unrequited crush! (But I am tired now and should attempt snoozation.) 220104 ... e_o_i and I meant to write "South Africa" where I wrote "South African" 220104 ... kerry i love, love love this. that is all. 220105 ... unhinged we_were_wolves that had the meat snatched out of our mouths by circumstance 220106 ... e_o_i I'll skip Jürgen for now, since I don't need to be exactly chronological. When I was 25, Esther: the nursing student of "surreal_Sundays," trilingual Spanish-French-English. Her looks I can only describe vaguely. Medium height, I guess. Brown hair. Maybe with red highlights? I don't remember anymore. But her voice! I imagine the soft cadence of her words, sure and wise and nurturing. At least, they sounded that way. (In my 20s, I was a sucker for other-language-accented voices, yet barely confident at communicating in English, let alone French. Even if I'd been devastatingly beautiful, I'd have found few chances at True Love on those terms.) So yes, Esther. It WAS pretty Sorrows-of-Young-Werther-y, falling for her when I knew she was engaged. I didn't learn the news when ballroom-dancing, the shock of it making me stumble - a comic moment in Goethe's otherwise tragic novel, IMO. No, I was introduced to her along with her fiancé. In a church pew, or somewhere around it. My parents had been attending the evening service at Côte-des-Neiges Presbyterian (it shows up in my novel draft as "Snowyside Presbyterian," because why not). The preacher there had interesting sermons even if you weren't a Christian, giving historical background and connecting theme to theme. Voices again: his rose and fell in storytelling mode. He brought activity to the book of Acts - unlike Paul, whose preaching made Eutychus fall asleep and tumble out a window to his death (he got better). I went to the services with Mom and Dad, but often went back along. Why? Well, "young people" like Esther and G. and a few others would head out for snacks. An opportunity to break away from my homebound life while still being good, still paying off my debt - including the literal money lent by Dad so I could finish my degree. Once we supped late at Aux Vivres restaurant, which boasts of being the first vegan one in Montreal. I remember a seaweed salad, odd but delicious. Before I saw the name written down, I heard O, Vivre! Oh, live! Let there be light and life and people with melodious voices! Eventually, her wedding date came up. My family was invited, so Mom or Dad drove. I didn't want to leave the car. I pleaded a need for food; I hadn't had lunch. (Now I can hear David's voice: "You're all about lunch.") Mom remonstrated that the wedding was starting. I fled to a nearby Subway, trembling as I sat down and opened my laptop. Tears reddened my eyes but I blotted them out with the pile of napkins assigned to me. A proofreading deadline also poked at my nerves. I still don't know whether I was more emotional about that or about Esther getting married. Anyway, I got some solid work done, enough to be confident I'd finish it the next day. I ran back to the service, an hour late. Esther and her groom were in full formal flower, taking pictures outside the church. With relief and regret, I thought I'd missed the ceremony part. But she saw me and called out with a smile, "Hurry up! We're about to start." Personalized vows and flower petals made me cry all over again. When it came time for me to be in the picture, I kept to the back. 220904 ... e_o_i corrects *but often went back alone. (not "along," that makes no sense) 220904 ... e_o_i This one is a story of long-ago dates and recent avoidance. With/of B. from Burundi, a country whose capital is now Gitega and not Bujumbura...though Wikipedia says it's complicated. See, I was up late last night writing and internetting, not just to avoid the last gasp of school-ish projects, but also because I got a notification that my sort-of ex messaged me on LinkedIn. Seeing his name reminded me of just how badly I'd communicated with him. By "badly" I mean ineptly - I hadn't been cruel or flippant, just phony. Misrepresenting myself over tea - making it sound like I didn't want to come over to his place (read: have sex) just yet because I was a vestal virgin with Good Christian Values. When in reality it was a step I hesitated to take without knowing him better. Which, yes, included cuddly physical contact. Hugs. Kisses. I might have tried to phrase that without being embarrassed, but of course I was embarrassed, and what came out was something like, "Well, well, you never really held hands with me." So he held my hand as we descended some street or other (it was a descent - literally downhill) and after that he stopped talking to me. Except for an occasional check-up on LinkedIn - see, he also did this four years ago. Which goes to show we wouldn't have made a great couple, neither of us being able to talk to the other very well. (I mean, only in four-year intervals? on Business Facebook??) But seriously. A few minutes ago I opened the message and he was just asking me how I was doing. Literally all. (Maybe he wants to know if I'm in a relationship, just for curiosity's sake. I don't know. I don't understand people. I'll tell him I'm finishing up a linguistics degree.) 240501 ... e_o_i ...Okay, I hope what I said was "WE never really held hands." I hope I wasn't so accusatory to phrase it like "YOU never held hands with ME." Holding hands is a two-way street. 240501 what's it to you? who go blather from