I’m in my house right now in Toronto.

There is so much strain between me on the west coast, and me in Toronto.

I sometimes toy with the idea of moving back here, because I really do miss the familiarity.

I keep going back to this topic from Urban Geography, which was the most abstract dimension — the sense of place. Other dimensions include production, reproduction and…. I forget. I had this essay question on an exam which asked me to explain my sense of place in Vancouver.  I couldn’t.  I had just come back from visiting Toronto for the first time in two years and described how simple things like seeing streetcars and my familiarity with the most simple, originally subconscious, attachments I have to this city made me realize my “place”, and how Toronto is my place.  In contrast, aside from my house, itself, I don’t feel like I have the same sense of place in Vancouver.

Home is where you choose to make it, and I have been trying to make Vancouver my home.

Being in Toronto is nice, but it’s really hard on me, because I miss the past, and still can’t accept that the past will never be the present again.

Conversely, In Vancouver, I don’t have a past that is holding me back, but that lack of past sometimes leaves me empty.

If 99% of planes landed safely, would that be a high enough standard of safety?  To put that into perspective — if 99% of all planes landed at O’Hare International Airport safely, there would still be 2 plane crashes at the airport.   This is the example that was used to illustrate the high standards of Six Sigma.  What I just explained there was the only piece of information that I took away from my business administration course — the rest of it was a waste of time for a painfully easy A+.  Six Sigma “requires no more than 3.4 defects per 1 million opportunities”.

For every 1.2 million flights, there is one airline accident. 0.000001 % of all flights are involved in an accident.

Yesterday a Turkish Airlines plane was involved in an accident, which resulted in a few deaths.

What has been interesting about the [as per usual-ly expected rabid] coverage of this particular crash is the lower amount of fear mongering, and amount of articles discussing how safe it is to fly by air.  Quite often the fear mongering articles throw in a “oh by the way, it’s still safer to fly than it is to drive a car” type reminder, but not until after several paragraphs of scaring the shit about you.

I’d like to point out that I’m terrified of flying, and have had some bad luck, but I also know that it is safer to fly than it is to travel by road.  On that note, I’ve been in several car crashes, so I’ve clearly got my fears backwards.

Now, whenever a plane is involved in an accident, you will be hardpressed not to find a resume of all the airline’s “safety incidents” published in a newsfeed within hours of said accident.

I was shocked — shocked!!! at the amount of articles that popped up gushing about how safe it is to fly (I’ll try to pretend that one of them didn’t use the word ’spate’…).

It was so nice to even see that the Associate Press reported

I am writing this from the “business centre” internet kiosk at the Embassy Suites in Boca Raton, Florida.  I am here for my cousin Joey’s bar mitzvah.  OH, and HAPPY CHANUKKAH!  It’s nice to be able to do this, cause I ALMOST DIED ON THE FLIGHT TO FT. LAUDERDALE.  More on that in a bit.

I was awake from 7AM PST (10 AM EST) on Dec 3rd to 7pm EST on Dec. 4rd.  Casey had a run about as long as mine for sleep deprivation.  We started tripping out. 

The trip here has been a non-stop debacle, but most of the events were mini-debacles after flight 1216 from T.O. to Ft. Lauds.

 Well, my flight from Van had some moderately frightening turbulence over the Rockies as per usual.  That, it turned out was nothing.

On our plane, we experienced some severe turbulence. AND the pressure system in the cabin was malfunctioning, so most of the flight was very, very low.  I’m  not sure how low, but we were basically flying at the altitude the plane flies at when you’re flying over Mississauga just before you land in Toronto.   The plane was shaking and throwing people around.  It was topsy-turving.  Not just shaking a bit.  Flopping all over the place.  Like a roller coaster minus the tracks.  I thought I was going to die.  I honestly did.  I actually started crying.  Worst of all, cause of the turbulence, it wasn’t until 2.5 hours into the flight that I was able to get a drink to somewhat calm my nerves.  But we got free Scotch!

 The flight attendants were very nice… But they seemed  pretty freaked out because there were occasional announcements from the pilot.  Scary announcements.  I remember the first one… him screaming “FLIGHT ATTENDANTS. GET BACK TO YOUR SEATS. NOW.” and for the next 10 minutes “EVERY BODY GET BACK TO YOUR SEATS RIGHT NOW. EVERY BODY SIT DOWN.”

 And my personal favourite, the pilot announcing “would the head flight attendant come to the cock pit and PLEASE BRING SOME OXYGEN”

 I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fly again after this.  I don’t want to fly back to Toronto.. On the other hand, odds are in my favour that I will not have a flight anywhere as bad as this ever again.

 Aside from Casey and me, everybody on our flight was old and Jewish and looked like Zsa Zsa Gabor or her male equivilent.  That distracted me only a little bit.

 The hotel is very nice.  I saw my cousin-in-law David, and met my first cousin once removed, Shelley. Tonight Casey and me are going to see the Florida Panthers vs. the Ottawa Senators.  If anybody needs to get ahold of me, call the Embassy Suites in Boca Raton.  We are in suite 339. 

It’s quite beautiful here.  Palm trees. Etc.

….when life goes on.

I am back in Vancouver and feeling a lot better that I was before I left.  Toronto treated me better than it had in years.  I had forgotten about the bright lights; the lack of mountains; the ABYSMAL transit system; the bluntness of people that is interpreted as rudeness out west; the ignorance; the familiarity; the comfort of being in a place that is chaotic, not merely because of inter-personal relationships, but because the city is so damned chaotic.  This is not something negative.  This is home, and home does not necessarily mean the place where you hang your hat.  Home is where you feel like yourself in a most unrestricted manner.

Growing up in Toronto, you don’t exactly get a sense of how intense of a city it is, and you assume that people who don’t understand the city are hicks, or people who resent the self-appointed “centre of the universe”.  I have a love-hate relationship with the city, and may or may not move back one day when it is safe enough for me to do so.
I could write about the specifics of the trip, but that would take all day.  It was not the specifics, it was the fundamental qualities of the experiences that made it such a meaningful trip.

I had a great time.  I wish I could have seen more people.  I would like to thank everybody who was such a great friend, and so supportive of me during a time when I needed you more than anything.

I arrived at the airport and promptly sat down at the bar. I popped a Valium; ordered a glass of red wine.  Oh, to be your typical tortured artist, jetsetter wanna be. 

I sat there and thought about how every time I have flown somewhere, there was always a pang in my heart, somehow related to travel.

 Some people fly for business.  Some people fly for leisure.  I fly as a form of self medication, or so it seems.  Moving to escape my past;  to start over a new leaf; to see someone you are madly in love with, or think you are; to surround your self with your friends in a time of need; to give yourself and others space who so greatly need it; to not be homesick; to get the fuck out of one place and get the fuck somewhere else, but wish there was a place between point A and point B in which you could hide forever.

Then there are those candid conversations that you have at the airport bar with all the other heavily medicated jetsetter wannabes. The lonely cliches, hunched over their pint, or gracefully attemping to sip on a martini. 

Yesterday afternoon I met a man from England who now lives in Winnipeg.  We talked about terrorism and we talked about love.

When I got here, Byron, Gigi and my mom were all there, and I let my larynx explode with vicious words, detailing everything I had needed to express, but could not in the same context from 3000 miles away.  I felt better.

Casey  got home at 3:30 AM, so we stayed up till 5:30, smoking, drinking red wine, and most importantly, talking.

I love my brothers, and it is so wonderful to be home.

This is what happens when you get so comfortable crawling into the cave that you can’t get out.

Half a slice of mini-cake.  A few gulps of juice. One potato chip (mighty tasty). Half a pack of cigarettes.  Alcohol, please.  Speedballs, PLEASE.

The only thing more self indulgent than sex is pain, and the self-pity or self-wallowing whence it comes.  I’m an asshole.

I don’t want to be sitting with the emotions bleeding out of me so visibly that it looks like I’m attacking.  I don’t want to experience these emotions that make me feel like I’m an asshole for having them.

No sleep.  No food.  No me.  No you.

I’m going back home to take it easy for a few days.

I am back. OH sweet Jaysus I am back. I did have some good times, but I could have almost kissed the ground when I returned.

I started getting panic attacks and feeling faint just being at my old house. It’s empty. So empty. It used to be full of people, and it used to be full of things that came to life when those people were there. Now it’s a sarcophagus. My house and my room, my front yard and the back yard, the street, the basement. It was so empty, dark and devoid of any feeling of life, even when there were people home besides my mom and myself.

The staff at YYZ were utterly unprofessional, and Air Canada managed to once again be a company capable of causing a minor debacle for me. I don’t know if I’ll ever fly with them again. Their flight attendants were fantastic, however, and if I ever fly with Air Canada again, the only reason other than them effectively having a monopoly in Canada is because their flight attendants were their saving grace.

The only kind employees for the whole company and they get the brunt of irate customers who are pissed off because of everyone who came before them.
It was so good to see everyone who I saw. Care & Pat, I love you guys to death. Thank you for taking my sweet pan dancing.

In an hour and a bit I am heading back to the airport.
Last night I saw my twin brother, Byron’s band, Mad Cow Funk play. Byron is a sick bass player. Wowowowow. His roommates also came out. One of Byron’s roommates is André, aka my first best friend ever!!! That was fun. Even if I am crazy sister Leora from Vancouver who is kind of crazy and says crazy things and crazy crazy crazy. I’m crazy.

I can’t wait to return. I’m bringing back shoes and records and a Minnesota North Stars jersey among other things. Nothing exciting. No frying pans unfortunately. That’s what I was hoping for. That and bedding for my bed. And my drug-concealing shoes. Not that I need to conceal drugs anymore, they were just sweet shoes. I can’t find them.

I want to go home.
Being here is starting to become difficult. I feel like I’m going to cry, except I don’t cry. I want to, but I can’t. The tears just don’t come out. I don’t know what it takes to reduce me to tears, but it takes a lot, I guess. Obviously it takes more than sitting at ground zero of the place that reminds me of the most painful things that have happened in my life.

I should grow the fuck up and not brood over the things I cannot change, but that is easier said than done. No… I’ve accepted I can’t change these things, but I’m still haunted by them. Haunted stiff.

Those problems will never go away, but it’s getting intense. Toronto is making me ill and I don’t know if I can ever come back. I’m sure I will, but I don’t know when. I just want to be in Vancouver right now, but be able to bring a few select people in my luggage.

I want to go home. I want my dad back. I want to go home. If my dad was here, maybe this would be home. I came to visit “home” and it didn’t exist.

Toronto is pretty sweet when you don’t actually live here.  I just realized; Vancouver does not get windy.  Is it cause of the mountains?  Toronto is fucking windy.  And cold.

It’s been fun.  I’ve seen a lot of people.  There are some people I haven’t seen, too.  I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I understand, I guess.

Last night I was going to stay in, but Care has the power to get me out of “my” house when no one else can.  So I pretty much had one of the funnest nights I’ve had ever.  I even danced.

I emailed this to Steven who never posted it, but here we go.  I am in Toronto now. It is so weird. I slept in my old bedroom.  I smoked cigarettes on my old porch.  My cats are here!!!!!!!!! I have a terrible headache, either from the change in altitude or something like… Toronto is stinky.  I sat next to a Jehovah’s Witness on my flight.  It was wack.

And we had the WORST MOVIE EVER, as per usual on a flight.  It was supposed to be “The Red Violin” but instead they screened “Freedom Writers”, starring Hilary Swank, which is a second rate version of “Dangerous Minds”, which starred
the lovely Michelle Pfeiffer.  Both movies are about preppy white women who don’t know about how hard life is in the projects.  They go teach at schools full of non-white kids who speak non-white colloquialisms and freak her out cause they shoot and rape eachother and even might do so in class, or steal her pearl necklace!!! (no pun. I’m serious) Eventually, the white lady teacher learns a thing or two about what the black struggle (or whichever race you would like to insert here) and then becomes one with the students, who think she’s hip.  They’ll start calling her names like “Miss G.” which is totally colloquial, y’all.  Then she will make a difference.  Because when rich white women come into the ghetto, everybody wins.

AS FOR MY AIRPORT DEBACLE. Not much of a debacle, but you may click to read about what I wrote at the airport. It’s not exciting. Cowboys and stuff. Read the rest of this entry »