of round trips, or running in circles
"No more fence sitting!" ushered T. Lotsofconsonantsforalastname, when he asked me if I was returning to 266 to retake my room and my role as Dave Number Three. After all, Henry and Justin, the bubbles of mold on the kitchen wall were getting lonely and he could use some help taking the garbage out. I never returned to 266 to live although of all the places I stayed in Toronto, it resembled home the most. And perhaps that is why.
I am always fence sitting between places, affiliations and even time. I'm somewhere in-between Toronto and Montreal, between past and the present, between celibacy and commitment. I am accumulating perfectly halved experiences, half-hearted romances, a half and half consistency of thoughts and wishful thinking. It is a state of being, as all the decisive people order their complex drinks at Starbucks or similar chains in perfect fluency, knowing what they want, with and without this and that, in this size, I imagine myself standing there, amazed at the lingo and the choices. Choice-made people. Choices-r-us.
When it was time to leave my last residence, it was also a time to say goodbye to either of the cities. Instead, I found a swinging option, swing lo' sweet chariot, and ingeniously opted for an-option-that-is-not-one. I am to spend sometime here and sometime there so long as the intricate lease-sub lease arrangements are renewed. There is both comfort and fear in this uncertainty. The prospect of return is a cozy fantasy but it is always a new place we return to, hence the thrill and the occasional awakening chill. A decision closes the deal. It comes roaring and invading all others. A decision is a brute.
The round trips, goings and coming backs and goings again, or running in circles are part and parcel of the mechanism of displacement. Movement conquers space. The itch to go and come back wins over. But then what to do with the dream in which my mother stands at the corner of a floating balcony of a high rise, wanting to tell me something? I can't approach her, I can't stand on my feet, I can't speak. I wake up. I pack. I leave for Montreal.
I am always fence sitting between places, affiliations and even time. I'm somewhere in-between Toronto and Montreal, between past and the present, between celibacy and commitment. I am accumulating perfectly halved experiences, half-hearted romances, a half and half consistency of thoughts and wishful thinking. It is a state of being, as all the decisive people order their complex drinks at Starbucks or similar chains in perfect fluency, knowing what they want, with and without this and that, in this size, I imagine myself standing there, amazed at the lingo and the choices. Choice-made people. Choices-r-us.
When it was time to leave my last residence, it was also a time to say goodbye to either of the cities. Instead, I found a swinging option, swing lo' sweet chariot, and ingeniously opted for an-option-that-is-not-one. I am to spend sometime here and sometime there so long as the intricate lease-sub lease arrangements are renewed. There is both comfort and fear in this uncertainty. The prospect of return is a cozy fantasy but it is always a new place we return to, hence the thrill and the occasional awakening chill. A decision closes the deal. It comes roaring and invading all others. A decision is a brute.
The round trips, goings and coming backs and goings again, or running in circles are part and parcel of the mechanism of displacement. Movement conquers space. The itch to go and come back wins over. But then what to do with the dream in which my mother stands at the corner of a floating balcony of a high rise, wanting to tell me something? I can't approach her, I can't stand on my feet, I can't speak. I wake up. I pack. I leave for Montreal.
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