illinois

I know this much is true

2002-09-25T03:44:56+00:00

I've decided that the best way to handle such a deeply bizarre situation as this one is to treat it like the ludicrous thing it is; something so dumbfounding and jaw-dropping that, well, all you can do is just laugh, because there isn't a rule in the rule book for this sort of special circumstance.

Everyone over the age of twelve likes to fancy themselves the keenest, most astute judge of human nature to walk this earth, myself included. Luckily enough, most of the time, the fact that you're deluding yourself only sends you out on a couple of bad dates or leads you to bet on the wrong sports team in the Super Bowl.

But there's a flip side to those illusions, a deadly serious, ugly flip side that can sink you deep in trouble before you've even had the chance to realize that you might be wandering somewhere near trouble. Only occasionally does that end up getting you dead, maimed, raped, or robbed. Most of the time it ends up getting your feelings hurt, maybe pisses off a co-worker or two; stings a bit, but nothing permanent.

In the past few months I've watched that flip side happen to some people that I know; watched that flip side flip up and land very, very close to my own feet.

I know this much is true: his name is Aaron Lowe, although Aaron is actually his middle name, and he is now a convicted felon. His court records are available online; I can show you where they are.

(Kinda ruins the suspense, doesn't it? Hey, I never went to screenwriting school; if you want better writing, you can underwrite my second bachelor's degree.)

I don't really know where to start, other than a bald statement of the ending and a delicate tracing-back of what few facts I know. About a year ago, Geof suggested that I get in touch with this Aaron fellow, as we seemed to have interests in common and would probably enjoy talking to each other.

We did.

I know this much is true: he was better-versed on movies than most people I know. Film buff? Very likely so.

We ended up talking on a wide range of subjects—centering mostly around code and movies. He was a complete novice at PHP, and wanted my help, which I provided. We chatted. I found him interesting and amusing - and, as a bonus, he lived less than an hour from one of my oldest and closest friends.

When I made plans to drive up to stay with Andrew and Joy, he offered couch space at his house. It meant that I could do more exploring on my own, and give Andrew more time to write the paper he was working on. I took Aaron up on the offer.

Through various and bizarre events that are multiple entries unto themselves, for most of the time I was supposed to crash at Aaron's house, I actually ended up in Chicago. Afterwards, I packed up my bag (singular!) and headed to Andrew and Joy's.

At this point, things got weird. Aaron flaked out in an impressively spectacular way. Why do I not explain fully? Call it a sense of dignity on my part; strange, considering how unnerving the flake-out was, and my lack of feeling any obligation toward Aaron whatsoever. But - Andrew and Joy will undoubtedly remember the repeated phone calls I made during the time I stayed with them, trying to determine if Aaron was actually still alive, and Geof will remember the worry/anger/upset in my voice when I called as Aaron basically barricaded himself in his house.

I hustled home, where my friends had thoroughly decked the walls of my house for a very nice Christmas dinner.

After the trip, I started paying more attention to details, questioning things, and came away…disquieted. I realized that the person that I had shared a few meals with was a person attempting to scrub away his past as quickly as it was created, something that I couldn't understand and couldn't trust.

I realized, later than I should have, that he was probably not trustworthy. Took me a while to forgive myself for that one; my policy in life is to give everyone, no matter how deserving or undeserving, a chance to earn my trust. Once earned, it's almost impossible to shake.

Once broken, wrath comes.

Then….the bottom fell out. Late January 2002, my father was diagnosed with cancer.

I know this much is true: Aaron's father died several years ago. (I have confirmed this with another person who knows his past.)

After his conduct in December, the mathematics of Aaron never added up right again. Little things began to manifest. I base a large part of my opinion of a person on the sum of their everyday actions. As the reasoning goes, if they cannot be counted upon to follow through on the small things, how can they be counted on to follow through on the big things?

So, as my family life was flying apart at the seams nearest you, I discovered that one of the best people for me to talk to about Dad's illness was someone I didn't feel I could trust any further than I could throw him.

Given the more pressing issues in my life, I put that one aside for a while.

Then he disappeared. Not without warning - with about twelve hours of warning. Aaron popped online one night to say that he was packing up and moving, and that it would be a while before I'd hear from him again.

Geof and I compared notes, compared logs, and it didn't take long for either of us to come up with an idea of where he might have gone. There was a woman, married, out in Vegas, whose conversations with both Geof and I had provided very broad and un-subtle hints that Aaron might be headed her way.

(Did they have an affair? I don't know, can't prove it, rather suspect they probably did, but in the end, find myself not terribly interested in knowing full details.)

I know this much is true (but I didn't know it at the time): Aaron fled west to avoid being arrested. According to court records, a warrant was issued for his arrest on February 8.

When he began to reappear online, he reappeared under screen names that, while not his old names, were plainly his. (Names of his cats were frequent nominees.) Shortly thereafter, I began to be contacted by women I didn't know.

One of them asked, "Are you in love with him?" —A question which, unfortunately, caused me to howl with laughter for a few minutes. At the time, it was the most ludicrous question in the world.

But, as time went on, I heard from a few more women, with similar questions, and my laughter melted into unease, then only a slight case of incredulity, back to gut-busting laughter again. I began to hear stories that were as sad as they were similar—women far away, lulled by the power of word and promise, who were all in love and promised love in return.

…one of whom said, "Yeah, he said you were a pain in the ass, always trying to muscle in on his code projects."

At this point, I was laughing incredulously on two points.

1) Muscling in on his code. I promptly sent her a vat of chat logs, plus original designs and code snippets, that made it rather devastatingly clear that not only did Aaron not know how to code his way out of a paper bag using PHP, that most of the things he claimed to have written were, in fact, actually my code or designs.

(Or, as I said to her…'I keep copies of everything. Source code, original graphics, ideas, everything. I'm a lousy person to try to steal from, because I document heavily, keep all my notes, keep plenty of backups, and have no problems whatsoever with showing them to others to prove my ownership.' Add to that, 'Ask yourself this question - which of us is coding a CMS in PHP? Chances are, the person that's doing that is the real person behind the code…')

2) All those years I spent wishing I were beautiful, lovely, fun to look at, generally desirable—hell, even anything above rather motherly and plain-looking? Guess it's a good thing I've never been good at getting wishes granted. He was either intimidated (which I highly doubt, as I'm more dotty-aunt-ish than intimidating) or thoroughly uninterested. Never thought that my lack of physical attractiveness would ever save the day…can you imagine trying to tell that to teenagers? ("No, honey, be glad you're not pretty. The felons aren't interested in the plain ones…")

So, anyway. There's not really a moral to this story, unless you count "the felons are only interested in the pretty girls," but somehow I don't think that's really the point here. To avoid making this longer and more drawn-out than what it is, the women in question started comparing stories and swapping barbs and anger and hurt like trading cards, and that's where I bowed out of the story.

Why? That evil flip side I mentioned at the beginning of this piece? It flipped, and it landed near me, but didn't land on me. In the end, I was a bystander, really; they were the ones who got hurt. I drove home, had a lovely Christmas dinner with a lot of people I care tons about, and went on with my life.

He, on the other hand, ended up pleading guilty to forgery and burglary, both felonies.

I haven't heard from him since.
Nor do I expect to.
Nor do I want to.

But sometimes, I can't help throwing a bit of a metaphorical glance over my metaphorical shoulder, and saying to myself, "That was close." I fit his pattern well, and yet it appears that I'm the only person in that pattern to emerge the whole sordid mess untouched, unhurt.

Part of me is grateful. Part of me is sad for the people he hurt.

I've spent a lot of years online, with a tiny opening salvo in 1990, then followed up by full-time access, starting in 1994. Jeff reminds me that, in those eight years, I've gotten to know some truly wonderful people. John. Brad. Andy. Gareth. Dan. Stephanie. Noah. Geof. Will.

Most importantly, Jeff.

Despite all the ugliness in this situation, I know that I cannot allow it to limit my ability to trust others. What was true then is still true now: the overwhelming majority of people, given half a chance, bloom under a bit of trust and love. Trust cannot be given blindly, but to go about life unwilling to extend it virtually guarantees that I'll miss out on knowing someone worthwhile.

In the end, I know this much is true.

Illinois: You'll do, miss. You'll do.

2002-01-06T04:38:56+00:00

I get asked sometimes about the kind of people I meet when I travel. Mostly because I always seem to come back with stories of the people that I didn't intend to meet, but somehow managed to bump into, anyway.

When I travel alone, I ask a lot of questions. Telling perfect strangers that you're a writer is almost tantamount to asking them for the story of their life; stand there quietly, perhaps with a pen and a piece of paper, and the world opens up to you. The next thing you know, you're sitting on a park bench with someone who formerly looked like everyone else (but who now is suddenly very interesting), and they're telling you the story of their life, their loves, and why they live where they live.

It's fascinating, and it's very, very addicting.While in Illinois, I took two day trips to Springfield. The first I devoted mostly to Lincoln-related sightseeing.

[full photoset here]

I had visited the Lincoln Memorial (I'm in the middle, sitting down) when I visited Washington D.C. in 2000, and I wanted to visit Lincoln's home and do a small amount of related touring while I was there.

After visiting the house and the surrounding houses, I felt that I'd seen enough. I'd been to the Memorial and to his home; for some reason, I didn't want to visit his tomb. There was something about driving to a churchyard and paying respects to a man I hadn't known that felt both wrong and … obtrusive, somehow.

But it was late in the afternoon on a beautiful, clear day, and it seemed a shame to come so far and not drive the last three miles. So I picked up my Springfield map and headed north, away from the numbered streets of Springfield's downtown, and headed to the cemetery.

The tomb wasn't hard to find; it was the enormous, fantastical monolith at the top of the hill. There was no mistaking it for what it was—a tomb that was supposed to tower over everyone else who had the courage (or the meekness?) to be buried there.

But what startled me most was that I walked inside the tomb and was greeted by someone. I had expected to be alone, and I think the astonishment showed on my face. He instructed me to go to my right, gave me some particulars about the structure, and admonished me to respect the wishes of Mary Todd Lincoln and to be silent in the crypt itself. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his suit as I rounded the corner.

Which I did—mostly. I had nothing, really, to say to Mr. Lincoln that hadn't already been said by people infinitely more suited for the task than myself, but for some reason I found myself drawn to Mary's section of the crypt. I touched the lettering on her stone and looked down the row, seeing the etched names of the boys that she buried.

No matter what she was like, she buried more loved ones in her lifetime than any person should ever have to. I ran my fingers over the name: t-o-d-d l-i-n-c-o-l-n, and asked the stone very quietly, "I wonder, if you knew what we know, if you still would have married him."

I walked out, back to the front of the tomb, and there he was again, repeating a different version of the same speech to the newest visitors, a middle-aged couple speaking in vaguely Indian accents. When they turned the corner to go into the tomb, he reached into his pockets again. This time, he pulled a small object out of his pocket—a counter—and clicked it twice.

Number of visitors that day. I understood now.

I introduced myself—his name was Robert, as I recall—and asked questions about the tomb itself. He gave me some literature and recited the other answers from memory. We chatted—weather, how far I'd come, etc., and then I asked the two questions I'd been itching to ask from the moment I first encountered him:

"Does it get lonely, sitting in here all day…and how does one end up in a job like this, anyhow?"

He smiled, and suddenly, he wasn't a tour guide. Just a fiftysomething man with dark hair, short-sighted eyes, and crow's-feet radiating out toward his temples.

"If you don't mind," he said, "I think I'll sit down for a moment." He pulled out his counter and played with it idly, then slowly scanned the room. "I started out working here in summers, to help out with the big tourist crowds that come here after school lets out. There's a steady stream of folk that come through all throughout the year, but this time of year [December] it's usually pretty slow because of the weather and the holidays and all.

"I hadn't planned on working here full-time, but I lost my job a year or two ago. It was difficult to find anything around here."

Then he smiled.

"You have to understand, jobs like this don't come along real often. People get in jobs like these and they just fall in love with them, and they don't just retire at age 55. The last woman that held this job didn't retire until she was nearly eighty. When she did, I'd been working summers for a while and…" here he looked down, and I think something like embarrassment and frustration crept into his voice—"and truth be told, we needed the money, so I applied to take on the job full-time and they gave it to me."

"It's kinda nice, actually," he whispered. "You meet some really odd folks, but some really interesting ones too. Most of 'em ask the same questions about the tomb, and they don't make it hard on you, but every now and then, someone hits you with a zinger that you have to go digging to get the answer to. You meet folk from all over the world who want to come to Springfield, Illinois, of all places in the world, to pay their respects to a man they'd never known.

"It never gets lonely here. I can't imagine holding another job. After all, this tomb isn't going anywhere.

"So what are you?" he asked.

I smiled. I hate this question, because the answer is long and convoluted and really isn't worth telling to a total stranger. "A writer," I said.

"So what did you think?"

I shuffled my feet. To say what I really thought, or say what most people undoubtedly said? I went for my real opinion: "I think it's lovely, and grand, and I think Mr. Lincoln would be horrified by the fuss and the grandeur. It's more a memorial for the people who cared about him, not the man himself. For that, I think his home is a lot more representative of the kind of person he was."

He smiled. "Then go to the bottom of the hill, and you'll find the temporary crypt Mr. Lincoln was placed in while this tomb was being built." I nodded. He paused.

"You'll do, miss. You'll do." He nodded, slowly, to himself, and shook my hand again as a new group of tourists came in the door. He pulled out his counter and began to tick them off, one at a time, and I gathered my books and headed for the back of the cemetery to find this temporary crypt.

Pictorial memoir: Illinois

2001-12-21T21:18:27+00:00

I confess. I was a bad, bad girl while I was on my trip. I didn't take any pictures. But—for those of you who just can't live without having this sort of thing, I did save strange and random bits of things to put together into a collage.

[see full-sized version on flickr]

Here's what you'll find in the picture:

The all-important packing list, taken from my visor. Can't forget the cell phone, or beer for the host.
My alarm clock, with the 'alarm' pointer still signifying my four a.m. wakeup time.
Chicago Transit Authority bus pass.
Pass to the Dana-Thomas house, which I toured in the rain.
Movie ticket from Innocence. I cried.
'Cashier was USCAN'? Aaron and I both boggled over that one. Quite funny, we thought.
Andrew's directions for how to get to the Savoy Theatre.
The writing on the postcard I sent to Jeff from Chicago.
When you leave for a week, there are lots of things to do.
I left on time. That's when I first bought gas on the way out.
Notes on when I was changing houses.
Aaron writes randomness on his grocery lists.
The best tour, by far, was the free tour I got at the Vachel Lindsay house.
I went to the Sears Tower. I bought postcards, but couldn't make myself go to the observation deck.
I finally saw Waking Life, which I'd wanted to see for months.

If I'm gonna die, dammit, I am NOT dying in Chicago.

2001-12-18T17:18:01+00:00

So, you wanted to know what, exactly, happened on that mysterious weekend in Illinois? This is the overwhelming majority of a letter that I sent to a couple of people while I was there, regaling them with the weirdness that always comes with a domesticat roadtrip.

Laugh, and be thankful you were you, and not me, during the course of this particular weekend:

Aaron apparently told Geof that I was boisterous and funny. I guess this is good; Geof's on me all the damn time to quit being so bloody quiet all the time. I thought I'd come out here and just, y'know, try letting it all hang out for few days. See if I scared him off. Doesn't seem like it….

Anyway. Things started getting weird the next day. Aaron had to fly to Pittsburgh for a Christmas party. He was scheduled to fly out Saturday morning and get back Sunday afternoon.

The problem: his mother pitched an absolute fit about my staying here while Aaron wasn't here. The "she-could-steal-you-blind" routine. Funny, she seemed to overlook the "small-woman-drives-far-from-home-to-stay-with-strange-man" factor, i.e., that I probably had infinitely more to fear from strangers than they had to fear from me.

The short version: she was going to pitch a screaming fit if I was here and Aaron wasn't. I offered to make nice and go to Chicago for a day to visit Matthew. I'd see an old friend and we'd keep his mother from coming over and trying to rip my eyes out with spoons or something.

Well, isn't that always how it's supposed to work?

I got up on Saturday morning. Wasn't in a real hurry. Aaron got packed, and left for Bloomington. (Get an IL map; you'll need it for this.) So I start packing up, and get ready to go, and then realize that I can't find my keys. I tear the whole house apart and can't find them. I'm freaking out. I call Aaron, who is equally freaked out because fog is keeping his plane on the ground.

Still can't find my keys. Still know that his mother lives a mile from Aaron and is probably going to show up at some point.

A couple of hours pass. Many frantic phone calls back and forth with Aaron. Still no keys. Finally, we hit on a solution. I call Joy and Andrew, who live in Champaign (45 minutes away). They come out, pick me up, and we drive to Bloomington (another 30 minutes). I have Aaron's main ring of keys, so I can open up his truck. Sure enough, there are my keys, in the floorboard of his truck.

Now, the dilemma. I call Aaron—what do I do? Joy & Andrew can drive me back to Decatur and I can pick up my car, but that will turn a 2-hour drive to Chicago into a 4-hour drive. Aaron says, "Take my truck. Just put some oil in it. It's got some quirks, but you'll be ok."

(I drive the world's quirkiest car already. Anyone who's ever ridden in my car knows this—it seats approximately 1.5 people, threatens to shake apart at over 80mph, needs a new CV joint, has a transmission-fluid leak, has busted speakers, and has an enormous stain on the front floorboard after that little strawberry pie incident…. Did I mention that it's also powered by four unionized hamsters that get cranky about working conditions when I try to drive up hills? Quirks? Bah. Quirks can be handled. Who needs a new car? It's too fun to kvetch about the older ones.)

So I give Joy and Andrew enormous bear hugs, realizing they're never going to let me live this one down. They heard my frantic-and-nearly-in-tears voice over many phone calls. I pile into this truck I've never driven before, adjust what I can, and prepare to head to Chicago by myself.

The side mirrors can't be adjusted. They point down at the ground.
The driver's side door can only be opened from the outside.
The doors only unlock when the key is inserted a particular way.
It tends to leak oil, necessitating my adding extra oil.

So I'm driving down the freeway in this truck in which I've only got one mirror, preparing to go into CHICAGO. I'm thinking, yeah, bud, I've got a death wish here.

So I finally make it to Matthew's apartment—then the search for parking begins. Parking in Chicago is a bloody pipe dream—like trying to park in Manhattan. I realize with this horrible sinking feeling that the only spaces available are parallel-parking spots, and I'm driving this enormous truck with no useful side mirrors.

So much for free parking. I head to the nearest parking garage, where I learn that parking is $25 for overnight. I nearly toss my cookies. Matthew had warned me that things were expensive here, but I didn't realize how much.

We talked for a long time, Matthew and I. I exchanged more phone calls with Aaron, who ended up having a lousy day too. The Bloomington airport was so foggy that he got driven by shuttle van to…you guessed it…Chicago to catch his flight to Pittsburgh.

The next morning, Matthew has to go into work to test something out. I go with him, to keep him company and so we can talk for longer. Aaron finally calls me back; I'd left him a message late the previous night saying that if he was bouncing through Chicago, why didn't I just pick him up at O'Hare and we'd make the drive back together?

All well and good; he was supposed to come through Chicago. He calls a few hours later; his flight's been canceled and he's bouncing through St. Louis now, and I need to pick him up in Bloomington. So I get ready to go. Matthew can't get me back to his apartment (and thus, the parking garage) so I have to take the bus back. This necessitates finding the correct bus stop.

Matthew's directions are awful. I get to where his directions say I need to be, and there's no stop for bus 151 anywhere around. At that point, the panhandlers start moving in. I am a casually-dressed white woman in her twenties, wearing combat boots and carrying a cell phone; I obviously have money. I start walking to evade these guys, and I get lost.

I finally call Matthew when I realize I'm being followed. I am quiet, but pretty frantic. I said, "I'm at the Kinko's at this intersection. Come GET ME to the correct bus stop."

Matthew, I think, thought I was kidding at first. I was standing up against the building trying to fend these two guys off as Matthew walked up to me. What a surprise; they melted away as soon as Matthew showed up. He apologized profusely and got me to the correct bus stop. He talked with the driver, explained where I needed to go, and the driver said he'd tell me when we got to the correct stop.

So we drove, and drove, and drove. I think you've heard about the shopping strip in Chicago called the Magnificent Mile? The bus route took me down that street; you should've seen how many people were out on a Sunday night!

Finally—after about 30 minutes—I get to the correct bus stop. I thank the driver and walk as fast as I can; it's about 4 blocks to the parking garage.

I get there, and look at my ticket. Dammit. I've been there for 24.5 hours; I'm probably going to get a massive surcharge. I have $40 in my wallet. I get to the truck, thank my lucky stars that I've made it this far, and haul out my maps and prepare to get the hell OUT of Chicago.

I pull up to the garage attendant and hand him the ticket. Overnight parking is $25, and I've been there for longer than 24 hours. He squints at the ticket and says in a Pakistani accent, "Two dollah."

I pointed out the date on the ticket—that I've been there for over 24 hours, not 30 minutes. He shakes his head. "Two dollah."

I have a $20. I try to hand it to him. "I haf no change."

I dig in my pocket. I have $1.25 in quarters. I say, "This is all I've got; either the $20 bill or this," with the most enormous, embarrassed smile.

He takes the change, pockets it. "You drive safe, lady."

I realize I have just managed to park overnight in Chicago for $1.25. If the mayor knew, I'd probably be ritually sacrificed. I decide the evil travel gods have lost track of me for the moment, and I decide to run away before they realize that I'm due for a smackdown. If I'm gonna die, dammit, I am NOT dying in Chicago.

I drive like a madwoman to Bloomington to pick up Aaron. I make it there 15 minutes before his flight touches down, and I even remember to stop at a gas station to put in a quart of oil.

I rule.

Aaron basically stumbles into the terminal. We hug; we realize that we are awfully glad to see each other, because we each independently realize that now that we've managed to meet up in the same place, everything's gonna be okay now.

He's exhausted and frustrated and really wants to go home. I offer to drive; he refuses, and I find that I'm secretly glad. We drive to Decatur; I nearly bawl at the sight of my car—oh, my car, that should've gone to Chicago with me.

We apologize to the cats, talk briefly, and retreat to separate rooms to sleep.

The next day, Aaron gets up and starts work. I start mapping out my day. I'm planning on going to Springfield to tour some Lincoln-related historic sites, plus some other stuff. The bad news: the "other stuff" totally falls through. The Vachel Lindsay house is only open Wednesday through Saturday, and the Dana-Thomas house (the Frank Lloyd Wright house) is closed one day a week….MONDAYS. Which, of course, is what day it was.

So my full-day trip is suddenly a half-day trip. I wait until noon to go out, since half of my reason for going has now been canceled. Drive out, see what I want to see, come back. Aaron's supposed to have dinner with his mother, and I certainly am not going to invite myself over to that little family soirée…so I stay at the house and watch the sequel to Wings of Desire.

Afterwards, Aaron starts dumping off episodes of Buffy from his TiVo to videotape; he's doing this for some friend or another. I end up getting sucked in. Blast. I see now why all my friends watch it, and are ashamed to admit they watch it. It's deliciously campy fun.

We end up staying up late to watch Real Blonde (despite how it sounds, it is NOT a porn flick!) We talk, we laugh, we harass the cats. We start poking through the movies available over his TiVo and start making fun of the titles. The next thing we know, it's two a.m.—and Aaron has to be at work at 8.

I wake up at 7:50 this morning and realize that I've never heard Aaron get up or leave. Worried, I tiptoe into his bedroom and wake him up. He yawns and says sleepily that the person he was supposed to meet isn't going to be in until afternoon, and so they don't need him to come in until the afternoon.

He went back to sleep, but here I am, pounding out this email—which is now so long that I'm going to copy out the relevant parts and send to Jeff, who undoubtedly will want to hear every word of it.

I change houses today—I go stay with Andrew and Joy for the remainder of this week. We're going to go on a movie binge, I do believe. I'm trying my best to get Aaron to join us, but I suspect this will be difficult.

Meanwhile, I'm going to harass the cats. Henry is the softest cat, EVER; Sydney thinks I'm pretty good at administering scritchies, too. (Lucy still isn't too pleased with my existence, but the outright hatred is gone.) I'll pack up and head out after I have lunch with Aaron.

It's all good. I haven't laughed this much in a long, long time. All I have to do now is remember to snap a picture of Aaron and I together.

- Amy

(p.s.—I never did get the picture.)

tired roadtripwarriorgirl arrives home

2001-12-15T04:37:33+00:00

I'm home from vacation.

Looking for pithy commentary? Look elsewhere tonight, please. I had a nerve-wracking morning. The details of this morning's events concern the well-being of a friend; and I am unsure of how much detail I can go into on this website. For now it must suffice for me to say that I was (and am) upset, worried, and hoping that the person in question is doing better than they were this morning.

I came home to a decorated living room, presents, and a sit-down dinner for eight. It was wonderful.Call it what you will, but I've been blatantly reminded over the past week or so that there are some people in the world that love and care about me very, very much. It was wonderful, being spoiled rotten for a few days, then driving home to find another houseful of folk who were very happy to see me after a week's absence.

The drive (something like seven hours) is catching up with me. There's a level of exhaustion that makes you sleepy, and then there's a level of exhaustion that leaves you with shaking hands, dry mouth, and a total inability to sleep. I fear I've crossed over into that state.

But, tonight, for the first time in a week: my own house. My own bed. Jeff. My kitties.

I went away because coming home is wonderful. The rest (the Chicago trip from hell, Springfield, friends, gaming, etc.) will just have to wait for another night and another entry.

roadtripwarriorgoodnessgirl, part 2

2001-12-13T07:00:26+00:00

* Amy is on vacation. She returns home on Friday, December 14; her almost-daily commentary will return shortly thereafter.

It's been good, guys, I promise. I don't check mail much; I don't even think much about sitting down and answering the tons of mail that I see are currently waiting on me. Is it selfish of me to run away for a week and not want to think about anyone? I think it is, even though I can't seem to help myself.I've watched plenty of movies; Innocence; Faraway, So Close; Real Blonde; The Red Violin; Amélie. Tomorrow afternoon I'll see Waking Life.

I find myself needing to believe in a lot of things, most of all, myself. I went away because I couldn't distinguish myself from the things I was trying to do. I went away because I couldn't let go long enough to really take a break, and because I needed to disconnect from things mechanical.

I find the missing part of myself on the open road. I don't know why this is true; I just know that since I was sixteen, it has been true, whether I like it or not.

There was a moment on the drive up here; a moment which stands out to me above all others. I was in southern Illinois. Somewhere, I don't know where; the fog was so thick that the road visibility was down to less than a quarter of a mile.

I put on a CD. I sang. I picked up my cell phone, and realized I had no service. I looked in my rearview mirror and realized that I could see no one. I was—alone. Nobody really needed me at that moment, and nobody truly knew where I was. In the fog, I felt invisible. Flying. Solitary. Free.

- and, suddenly, everything was right again.

The night before I left, I was horribly nervous. I know it came through in my voice. Aaron said to me, "Are you sure this is going to be all right? Are you sure this is ok?"

My response: "I'll get in the car tomorrow and, at some point, it'll all drop away and everything will be all right."

It was. It is. It will be.

Those of you who haven't been around me in the past week haven't known how much I've wanted to write during the past week, and the effort it's taken on my part to step away for a full week.

Life is what happens between the entries; between the moments of reflection I snatch while sitting at my keyboard. Lately, I'd been feeling that I'd been doing too much sitting and not enough living. I think I've given that proportion the tweak it needed.

I arrive home tomorrow night. I have stories to tell.