A ”dash” at 800km/h…

  1. the tendency to seek distraction and relief from unpleasant realities, especially by seeking entertainment or engaging in fantasy.

So, I did.

On Friday, I strapped my I’ve-earned-this-ass into a pressurized metal canister hurtling through time and space and left this dastardly city behind me at 800km/h and 21,000ft in the air.

I guess it’s better than running headfirst into the river.

I suppose it’s a better story than pulling a Thelma & Louise.

I wonder what would have happened had I chosen not to re-strap myself into a pressurized metal canister hurtling through time and space and return to this dastardly city.

I found a bit of my ”Soul.” where I went. I found a whole lot of ”Me.” I found a whole smorgasbord of opportunities that may never come to fruition, but the hope alone keeps me keepin’ on.

Like, memories.

Memories of looking out the window down onto geometric farmland, of glacial gouges and of water that was textured like a skin of the Earth.

Memories of rail cars and subways and ‘what the hell ever prompted me to do something like this, again?’


Specifically, my ”dash.”

Have you seen this?

Punctuating life...

Punctuating life…

It was on my Facebook feed the other day.

Seemed quite apropos.

This is why I went.

I was filling my dash.

Thing is, I want more dash.

More time, more adventure, and sure as shit more ”Me.”

Simple things seemed to get to me in ways that I’d never imagined. I saw things in ways I’d never considered.

I read between the lines at the happenings and circumstance.

And, it made memories.

Beautiful nightmare...

Beautiful nightmare…

There were sharks. Because, sharks are the epitome of time…200 million years before the dinosaurs monopolized the tundra.

Their beauty brought me to tears.

Seriously. Bitch be cryin’ like a first grader winning a trip to see Santa at the North Pole. I didn’t giveth a shiteth. It was a spectacular opportunity and I hopped off the moving walkway and did it over again. Because, I can. Could. Whatever.

There was the pushing of my anxiety boundaries. There was, I may have mentioned, strapping myself into a pressurized metal canister hurtling through time and space at 800km/h and 21,000ft in the air. The pressure made my ears hurt so bad I thought I was going to sob.

Didn’t care.

Eyes on the prize.

There was over-stimulation and fears and pain and utter, mind-blowing exhaustion and I didn’t care.

Eyes on the prize.

One of the most incredible moments of ”Me.” was watching a bear coerce a porter into sneaking my I’ve-earned-this-ass into here:


This is the Crystal Ballroom of The Omni King Edward Hotel.

This is the Crystal Ballroom where my grandmother danced on Friday, January 28, 1935 when she was 13 years old.


This. Was. For. Memories.

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Can’t even?

CAN even.







I needed this on so many levels.

I can’t thank that porter enough for allowing me to connect in this kind of way.

Props to you, James, you took on a bear and watched a grown woman cry with ”Happy.” Bet that made lunch break conversation a very interesting one, indeed.

As the days get shorter, the chill more frequent in the air, I find myself wondering how my body will adapt to the impending cold (it doesn’t) and if my perception of all things “Colour!” will fade (it won’t) as the leaves tumble in release.

Making memories is the one thing that helps keep me keepin’ on.

One pixel in a dash at a time.

Because, I can.

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