Moving blog sites

I moved everything else -- might as well upgrade the blog quarters too. Have migrated all of my old posts from here to:

http://cateinbc.wordpress.com/

(Wave when you show up?)

The ferry in the moonlight

I had a really magical weekend, with the longest first date ever. Very much about letting what was in front of us unfold.

The plan was for me to pick M up at the ferry late afternoon, to have a walk and some food, and then for me to drive him back for he las crossing.

(damn, my key I use mos is NO WORKING -- I spilled coffee bu hough i was okay

compuer OFF

Recursive random

I have one reader on this blog (that I'm aware of) that I haven't had any contact with in some other context. I like this. It's about the level of OUT THERE ness i'm comfortable with ;-). Thanks for delurking, Donigan.

So this is going to be random in response to your comments on my random.

A country nobody ever paid attention to before ... try Slovakia; lived there for seven years in the 90s, and everyone thought I was either in Slovenia, Yugoslavia, or somewhere in the Baltic or the Balkans. Oddly, Bratislava is about 25 miles from Vienna, on the same river. You could try there.

7 years? Interesting. I love this mystical mythical hidden country idea. Although the guy I had the longest-first-date-with-ever on the weekend grew up in Moldavia. Definition by what it is not (not romania, not ukraine). Like my friend from Montenegro.

I think there might be more DOGS in slovenia than in Iceland. And dogs are not the friends of cyclist.

What is a slut in the Victorian sense?

A bad housekeeper. A woman of questionable virtue because DIRTY.

Isn't internet dating kind of dangerous? What's wrong with readings, cafes, and nice bars?

It's pretty isomorphic -- it's what people do now, so it's what you do to meet a pool of single people. It's how I met F, and my friend Shay, and other people whom I dated brieflyYou get a good sense of who a person is from how they communicate online or on the phone before you meet them, and for the most part, you meet them in public. . I realize as I write that that I've violated my own "only in public" principle for the last two dates, by picking them up at the ferry, but we'd talked on the phone and I had their professional credentials.

It's always interesting to me that it has this reputation of "danger" -- IME, no more so than someone you meet in real life. When I think about it, I had more scary experiences with drunk people I knew in my late teens/early 20s than with people I've come to know online in one way or another.

As for readings and the like, see upcoming post on the poet I met at a reading a few months ago.

What is a CMM community?

"CMM" is the shorthand for the communication theory I work with -- coordinated management of meaning. The work that my mentor (the one who is sick) started. The community is the gang of us who were taught by him and who are carrying on his work.

Random random random

1. Can I just say how annoyed I am that Iceland is so much in the news because of the economic collapse, all when I was quietly plotting to go off to a country nobody ever paid any attention to ever before?

2. I bought my first pair of gardening gloves ever today. I still have no clue what it means to do yard maintenance, but my little yard is a jungle. Also, there are dandelion fluffs in my kitchen.

3. There seems to be a tall ship out in Semiahmoo Bay.

4. I can't figure out how to make my camera do what I want it to do, so I can't capture any meaningful colour in sunsets. Is it churlish to think that the very nice camera F gave me for my birthday isn't the one I would prefer?

5. I've been hanging my organic white cotton sheets on the line, and they smell AMAZING. Unfortunately, they also now have some sort of clothesline schmutz on them. Does it make me a slut in the Victorian sense to put them on my bed anyway?

6. I've been on (counting) five internet first dates since I moved here. One lunatic whose profile I should have read more critically before I drove to town to meet him, one philosophy prof who will become a friend, one pissy former physicist I thought might be interesting but who didn't deal at ALL well with my trying to change subsequent plans, one guy who was promising but became clingy rilly rilly fast, and one guy I like but who has revealed to me that yes, it is WAY possible for someone to be far more driven by the carnal than I am. A girl could get discouraged. What on earth does tomorrow, with the Russian guitar-maker, hold?

7. In all of this, as I sit knitting a sweater that's at my edge of knitting competence, thinking about the work with the CMM community and so much else I have in front of me, I'm realizing I pretty much have everything I need. It's a remarkably sweet spot.

Ducklings (and #300)

My friend Paula asked me if I'd started to establish community out here. Not really, unless you count my shouting "SHUT UP" at the ceaselessly yapping dog behind me yesterday as a way of connecting to the neighbours. I do feel like I have enough people in the region to be able to scare up someone to do something with if my need to be alone wanes, but for the moment, the combination of recovering from such a busy time and the amount of connectivity I have via phone/wifi pretty much fills all of the space I have right now.

I'm trying to make sense of all of the different strands of work, and in some ways, it feels like I am really living two or three lives, even more than when I was doing my phd and working. A pile of Toronto-based client work, an enormous amount of energy right now in the CMM sphere, and then this untended BC-based project. Emails slurping in constantly, with new leaps in the conversation before even I -- multitasking queen of the universe -- can tend to them.

I had an experience about 12 years ago that's kind of a metaphor for how I feel about my work these days... I had gone to Regina for a work meeting, and I had a long stretch of empty time before my flight left. There is not really a whole lot to do in Regina on a spring day ("you could go to the Mountie museum," suggested the visitor person), so I chose to go walk around the provincial legislature building. (Experiencing it geekily as a shrine to Tommy Douglas).

So there I was, walking around the sparkling white leg building, through winding roads with little lakes and trees, and I came across this little family of squawking ducklings. They'd run out of this lake/pond and hopped down a fairly high curb, and couldn't get back up. They kept hurtling themselves against it but couldn't hop up, couldn't get back to the water.

So of course I decided I needed to help. I scootched down to try to pick one of them up... and he slithered away. Hand clench -- slither. Clutch - slither. The little ducklings were hopping all around, squawking, as I repeatedly tried to grab them and found the edge of feathers and then empty air.

I was starting to get frustrated and worried (and I looked like a crazy person, hopping all around), and another woman walked up. She instantly assessed what I was trying to do, bent down and scooped up five of them at once.

:-|

I fluttered around behind her, finally caught one more, and we returned them to the pond and their oblivious mother.

Yesterday, I felt like the competent duckling-grabber... today, not so much.

(And PS -- this is blog post #300... possibly the most consistent thing I've ever done, writing-wise. And now that I don't have someone in my immediate life to process my days with, sometimes a really useful place to work out what I'm trying to do. Waving at my few consistent readers -- appreciate all of you ;-)).

Grace II

Yesterday was a day of Travel Unpleasantness. I was traveling back from TO to BC, and everything minor that could go wrong did. I left in a torrential downpour, and my cab navigated sheets of water pouring off the gardiner and axel-high floods on the lakeshore. The first plane was broken, then there was a gate change, gnarly children, delays. I ended up with a squishy middle seat next to a trembling vodka-sucking man because a family with tiny children had been split up and I gave the mom and baby my seat. My little seatback tv didn't work. I lost my debit card, at a time that my bank account holds ALL MY WORLDLY goods, in the form of the proceeds from my loft sale. My online community was having a meltdown, a kind of aftermath of an intense-supporting-someone time that sort of ... dissolved... in a kind of unsatisfactory way.

And. I had a transforming day. I was working up quite a head of irritability when we were sitting on the hot tarmac waiting for fuel, and I decided that instead of aimlessly flicking through podcasts and knitting grumpily, I should read a chapter that KP had written for our book, on CMM as a spiritual practice.

The piece is magnificent, and it instantly elevated me. K was exploring our transforming communication work as "spiritual" practice, through a very personal reflection of identifying moments of grace through the aftermath of BP's cancer diagnosis. It shunted me immediately to my higher self-concept as "person who seeks complexity and can therefore metabolize complications easily," and I was able to relax into the rest of the trip... and toast my arrival with some ahi tuna and a glass of chardonnay down at the waterfront.

I'm happy to be back here, and things seem so much more possible.

Yearning

Last day in TO for a while. It was a busy errand day (waxing/polishing/haircut/colour/coffee with kat/late lunch with B) kind of day, punctuated by torrential rain, navigated mostly on my bike, until B took pity on me and drove me home.

Then it was a puttery early evening, laundry, packing, cleaning my wee place so I can leave it for 5 weeks. And while I was cleaning and poking about, Josh Ritter came on my itunes. All of the songs from Animal Years, which I so associate with my sojourn in portland three and a half years ago, sitting in the coffee crutch coffee shop beavering away on my human development knowledge area, trying to make meaning of my shifts in identity.

There was such a YEARNING in that music, especially Here at the Right Time. It fixed itself on F, but in some ways, the free floating anxiety I've had as long as I can remember has been counterpointed by a free-floating yearning. I felt it again today, in this music, and couldn't even figure out what I was yearning FOR. I remember once buying a card that had a fragment of a poem on it -- I think sappho -- I yearn and I seek (google is a help here: kai` poðh'w kai` ma'omai -- I yearn and I seek). I think I bought this years ago, while I was still with B; thought about sending it when I was adoring K; ended up, I think, sending it to someone I had a mad online flirtation with that didn't sustain into actual meeting. But it's something I've been carrying for so long that I know it doesn't really have a lot to do with F. There are things we did together that I keenly feel the absence of, and aspects of who we were together that I'll always miss, but the real heart of it is losing the *possibility* of intimacy... and today, I think I'm sad that I've lost sight of myself in a way as a hopeful person about that.

Renee pointed this out, and I think in some ways it's true -- building myself the perfect transitional life where I try to balance and bridge my grounded, open west coast self with my dynamic, busy, successful TO self, where I plan trips to africa and iceland, co-edit books and position myself as part of a broad theoretical community -- all of these are things I want, AND they are tropes for a life structure to essentially compartmentalize and fragment intimacy, to close off the likelihood of meeting someone whose day to day can fold around mine. I can't quite figure out if this is a substitution that I'm not truly comfortable with, or whether it's genuinely grabbing a brass ring of claiming full life. And of course, it's both. Some days the ersatz nature of it has a stronger aftertaste than anything else. Which, maybe, means it's time to go back to BC.

Pages

Nearing the end of my first sojourn in TO in my new place, and I really do love this perch up in the sky, this 15th floor nest with the amazing sunsets.

I had dinner with Shay the other night, and I brought her up here to see it, and she crowed about the cosiness. It is cosy. I like it. It's pretty tiny, but it doesn't have that sense of echoing, untapped vastness that my loft did. And I don't think I'll ever want to live in a place ever again that doesn't have access to the outside -- even the little balcony here makes a world of difference.

I left my loft in good shape, with flowers for the incoming girls, as I posted before.



I feel a tiny bit wistful about it, but I've really taken to this condo life. I like having a concierge, I like feeling far away from the ground and its many noises, but still being in touching distance of shops, NICE restaurants, plush gelato, good theatre, should I want it. I like the pool and the gym and the sauna, even if I don't use them. I like having 15 flights of stairs to walk up to try to force off a tiny bit of the plumpness that's taken over in the high moving, high stress time.

There are a lot of milestones here as I finish up my move and hie myself off out west for august. I went to Pages today, for the last time, I think. It's closing at the end of August. It's funny -- it was never my favourite bookstore, exactly, but it always made me feel *smarter*. I bought stuff there that I aspired to read, that made me think, rather than tripe.

And over the past 25 years, I've bought an endless supply of notebooks there. I always loved these Clairefontaine ones with the plaidish covers -- again, talismans of hope that I'd write something, do something, make something meaningful, worth recording. Tracey was the one who introduced me to Pages and to these notebooks, and it's a funny little synchronicity that so many of the journals and notebooks I threw away last week in my first purge of all of that stuff were these books.

It doesn't make me wistful, exactly -- although I don't know who else would be such a meticulous buyer of cultural theory, the tables of books that made me think and aspire. But it does feel like another closing point, another click pointing me to the recognition that any aspirations I have aren't really nested here, anymore. Like the realization that I didn't have a single qualm tossing my high school yearbooks down the chute, or unloading a whole bunch of these notebooks. They were me then, moment in time that don't mean much in the preservation. I know what I'm drawing on and taking with me, and holding onto them is more of a weight than an anchor.

I did buy one thing today that I hope will push me forward -- an uncategorizable book called The Importance of Being Iceland. A book that has the inexplicable symbol on the cover. My hare-brained plan to hie myself off there next year needs some kind of shape, and maybe I really need to start to learn something about it. Read in bed for a while instead of yacking online.

Here with you

Surreally, I find myself in Kansas City yet again, talking my way through workshops and other conversations about the future of the communication theory I work in with my compadres, at the tail end of my school's national summer session.

Tucked up in one of the Westin truly heavenly beds, mid-afternoon, instead of running. Listening to one Laurie Anderson's Here with you, a short piece that slows me down and stretches time for me. I'm really really tired after these weeks of moving and emotion of so many different species, but elevated at the same time by the conversations. Months and years of accumulated stories, word in word with one of the people with whom I can truly be the Cate I most aspire to, trying to map a path for the next few months that lets me enact this scholar and world-changing self.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the fact that I am a "serious" person. I don't know why I feel so compelled to label myself that way, but maybe it's something about being intentional about carving out a purposeful life. There's more to be revealed there.

3.5 years

At YYZ once more, bizarrely bleary eyed, considering that it’s nearly 1pm. I really need to improve my sleep hygiene with these time zone issues – stayed up waaaaaay too late talking to Mr. Victoria and then watching the last three episodes of season 1 of Damages.

My loft sale closes today, and even as I’m conscious that there are two young women having a big emotional moment when they unlock that door for the first time, I’m feeling pretty detached from the whole thing. Maybe it’s the effect of the endless bloody tedious steps of this move – I was still tossing and organizing and making decisions about stuff on Tuesday and Wednesday (what the EFF could still be there after all of these moves? Books to donate, a fridge and freezer crammed full of stuff, expensive Tupperware filled with rice & flour, a few things under the bathroom sink, the cd rack bolted to the wall that B decided she wanted, etc.). Or maybe it’s just that the loft really was a transitional zone between my divorce and my future life, and it was time to move on.

This space did bracket my relationship with F, as embedded with possibilities and hopes in the front end, scene of dusty sleepless nights and those fleeting moments of half-asleep recognition that things with F were never even sewn tightly enough together to be frayed, knowing the inevitable in that hypnogogic zone of freefall.

Lots of facing of self, finding of feet in the slap slap on the cork floors, encountering simultaneously the Cate who wanted to live in a pretty unfettered way and realizing how much the chaos and noise of the market agitated me. Facing self as a time-compressed person against Kat’s creative all night explorations.

The best aspect of those 3.5 years was Kat, in fact – loving reminder to slow the hell down and notice things, enjoy my quirks, let in the music (and the Indian Jinx-be-gone potion). Also finding Jess, the hairdresser who really found my hair. The worst – well, the facing of all of the angst, although it was also the scene of facing it down and learning to hold it more loosely, with more humour. Really entering my phd and owning it and all it could mean.

I did a final sweep last night of the place, leaving a few eccentric items behind that I hope won’t annoy the new girls – a couple of mops, some lightbulbs, mango gelato and packaged smoked salmon in the freezer. A box of latex gloves that I acquired from a paramedic friend who had a vision of me as somewhat more inclined to random hookups than I am. (Her vicarious hopes, I guess). I also left some flowers and a friendly note wishing them well – though my gut is that buying an open concept loft as a young couple (especially one with two damn much outside noise) is probably a Mistake. (Cynic, I am).

So that scene is faded, and I have my perch in the sky with the inky north west sunsets, and my cottage by the sea, and a pretty strong sense of how I’m navigating the world solo. Missing F from time to time – especially in TO – but every moment of felt loss is infused with immediate reminders of the painful, always-chafing bits. Realizing my time with him and my time in this space left me with a sense of myself as a serious person with lots to do, but also such a strong need to intimately connect, be playful, seize it all.

Not a bad thing to take away from those three and a half years in that space.

YVR -- YYZ -- MCI -- YYZ -- YVR

At airport, heading back to TO. Thinking about the paradox of my life, general and overall happiness and contentment mixed with immediate crankiness. High auditory sensitivity because of hormones, lack of sleep, and wanting to pinch the guy whose hiking boots are going SCHLUMP SCHLUMP SCHLUMP, while reveling a little bit in the iphone-captured photo of my windy, chilly seawall walk last night. I'm going to miss my little house.

Sometimes it feels

as though so much of what I've collected in my life led me to this little house. I don't even remember acquiring this -- I found it in a box of photos -- and it's a bit twee for anywhere else I've ever lived. But it fits this corner perfectly.

Dusk

I've been trying to walk or run the WR seawall every day. Am finding a rhythm where, on the evenings I'm home, I go out around 830 for an hour or so. On a cooler non-holiday night, the seawall is almost empty, the tide is high, the sky pink. I really feel calmer and more peaceful than I ever remember.

Cautionary icons

I’m not sure why I’ve been so non-posty since I got here. I’m happy, so not feeling all reflecty-angsty, but I’ve also been relatively solo, so not full of Amusing Stories. Just me, liking my little house, liking what it does for me, relaxed and feeling like life is ripe. Duck’s back, water, about most things.

It is odd living in a town that feels like I’m visiting it for so many reasons. WR is very white, and the average demographic is downright elderly. I venture out into the town itself to buy food, to buy gelato and eat it on the seawall, to use the landscape as my own sprinting/breathing/striding/riding platform. There’s a tall hill behind my house that I can march purposely up, strengthening legs, and a seawall to run along when it’s not thronged with moseyers. In some ways, the town and the people blur for me, and it’s not that different from living in the country – I orient myself to my view of the water, my sweet house, the hills or road under my feet or tires, google maps to figure out how to get elsewhere, my people in the computer.

One of the effects of this has been to test my mettle on what I can do on my own. There’s been a lot of Assembling required in this move, flat ikea boxes that pop up into bookshelves, bedroom furniture, a little table to trap my keys and glasses at the door so I don’t lose them for good. Too many of the instructions for my furniture started out with a little drawing of the sad man with the aching back and broken pieces of wood around him, much happier when he has a little friend to help him out. Not hard to find symbolism in that.



Nor hard to find symbolism in one of those pieces being the building of my own bed, after I got home from a pleasant but uninspiring online date the other night. Determination, stacks of books, a lot of swearing, especially when I dropped the box spring into the room at large, taking out my alarm clock permanently. But I got it together, along with the dresser and nightstand, my ridiculous snow-white duvet cover,



inordinately proud of myself for figuring out the things that in my previous life have belonged to my competent brother in law, or butch and handy ex. Just me, creating the space that is ineffably soothing, ineffably promising.

Fireworks

I had a puttery canada day, after having french toast and bacon on my deck. Recreating the most perfect breakfast I ever had anywhere, in Queenstown New Zealand in 1996. Then some work, and an abortive bike ride (didn't realize until I was 5 miles out that I'd forgotten my helmet), then more work, then a really miserable run (every step a plod, leavened only by concentrating on the month's old Canada Reads discussions that highlighted The Book of Negroes, which I just read and was utterly immersed in). Then, after shaking the peaches of the tree of plenty of fish, took myself out for dinner on the deck of my local seafood shack. Was gifted with a sweet server named Lizzie who encouraged me to stay until the fireworks. So I had a second glass of wine and did.

And thought about my dad, who loved fireworks, along with amusement parks and freaks, and F, who didn't let us break up just before the holidays partly because he didn't want to think about watching the New Year's Eve fireworks off the space needle by himself. (Not, without ME, mind you, but by himself). And instead of feeling wistful, I was just noting. People of my past, me on my own, decent and unspectacular fireworks, people in couples and families, and me, just fine. My dinner, my engrossing Ian McEwan novel, the sweet young server. The residue of the pink sky over the water. All just fine. Maybe for the first time ever.

To be honest

I'm happy. Despite the fatigue, the yappy dog, and the swamp-moss mold dripping from the shelves in my fetid fridge filled with bacterially exploded salmon (nice treat to come back to), I really love being in BC. I cannot state sharply enough how much my chest fills when I see the sea as a part of everyday life.

I'm having a kayak lesson in the morning with some dude from the internet, and I took great joy in being all Organized and Competent and putting my racks on the car myself. If I can load the boat on my own... well, that will be a whole new level.

I'll let Billy Collins speak for me

Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Billy Collins

Maybe it's the weather

But I'm finding that my little way-up-high perch in Toronto is giving me the same kind of fresh aspect and sense of possibilities that I had in my borrowed space in pdx 3 years ago. No hills on the edges, but discovering a new neighbourhood is feeling good. I do miss the scruffy uncertainty of the market -- the guy chasing another guy down the street yelling "he's a peeping tom!", the unexpected interpretive dance in the street behind Kat as she sang On the Highwire at Graffiti's, the bird lady with her odd little tiny-wheeled bicycle and careful costumes, the flakes of coffee beans settling in your hair when Moonbean was roasting. Here it's a little sterile, a lot yuppie, very full of couples. But being this high above gives me a sense of breathing space I didn't have from the 4th floor.

Very conscious that doing the things that are hard *always* gives me energy in the end -- so really not understanding why I handle the stress of doing it so very very badly. Renee commented that I was as tense about going to Africa as I was about this move, and that turned out to be magnificent. Now to somehow be heedful of that.

Off to a family wedding, feeling a little bereft to be dressing up without someone to twirl for. Beginning to think about the concept of going on a date again. Not as hopeful about that as I might have been three years ago -- but edging into it.

The horse you're on

We had the third session of our course today, and just like last time, a participant said something to me I had such a hard time processing. I couldn't even remember this woman's name, and she came up to me at the break and said, "I enjoy you so much -- and I wanted to tell you, you remind me of -- or rather, my daughter reminds me of you." Then she proceeded to tell me about her 10 year old daughter, and how unusual and bright and connected and *energetic* she was, how she drew the best energy from what was around her. Her name is Rachel, this daughter, and L said that she recently said to her, "mom, you have to ride the horse you're riding. Fight the duel you're dueling."

I found this delightful... and it also smacked me like a paradox. Several participants in this course have given me this kind of feedback, this "you make everything seem possible" kind of feedback. In really amazing, astonishing terms. And yet, I feel like my way of collaborating with my colleagues has been strangled at times, I feel tired so often and not particularly energized or insightful, and I feel like I've wandered through my weeks feeling bleak and bereft. So often on the verge of tears, or beyond frustrated, unable to find the rhythm with the people I'm supposed to be close to.

It's such a weird paradox, and echoes so much in my life -- that I have these full, loving, rich, powerful relationships with people who are at arms' length, but that people in my intimate space get my full, prickly, scratchy, tiresome, tiring self. Especially right now, when I'm playing out the complaints and pains of this move that would normally be inside the partner space on so many people. When I played out the devaluing I was feeling with F, the knotted dissatisfaction in being angry when I wasn't getting what I needed with "safer" people. I don't know how to bring these things together.

I am trying to hear the wisdom offered by this 10 year old. To ride the horse I'm riding. To remind myself of the joy of this move, not the fatigue and endless, ENDLESS difficulty of logistics, not to feel exasperated and angry when people don't see the rawness of it. To be grateful for those who do, and to surpass it. To revel in the opportunity of a year of shivasana, instead of feeling resentful and angry that this is so different than my pdx sojourn three years ago, when I left two casual lovers behind in TO, was full of anticipation about my phd work, and had the opening up of the connection with F flickering at me. I have somehow absorbed a story that there isn't much ahead of me... and I need to look at the horse that's moving and really grab this for the adventure that it is.

I think it just hit me

that locals will expect me to be, well, local. I'm on my way back to TO, and I had a set-to with the shuttle woman. The phone woman told me 6:15, and she came at 6:00 and was grumpy about it, then she didn't take credit cards, or an out of province cheque. All of my stress over the last couple of moving/not sleeping days bubbled out.

Yesterday was hard. Receiving furniture, trying to unpack as much as possible, F delivering my kayak and other stuff, such tension and sadness between us, not knowing how to say anything that wouldn't just lead to mis-steps. Work, travels, family and a strangled goodbye. Then D&F visiting, warmth and casual presence. Then more unpacking, and calling F to try to have the conversation I'd hoped for. And being able to have it, shifting the sadness from wound to the seaweed at the edge of the tidezone, liminal and forlorn.

Before bed, finishing unpacking the kitchen, hanging one picture in the bedroom, trying to do another above the fireplace, but realizing it was really time to stop when I hit concrete with my drill and was just making a mess. Staggered into bed.

Today, stressed, time-zoned, no energy for going back to TO and all of its work gabble. Need a day of sleep. Tuesday?

Planes. A path that will become familiar, I think. I don't even know yet if I am supposed to transfer my car reg to BC, but if so, I think I'll get a vanity plate. YVR*YYZ. And a local chequing account.