Day the last of Toronto

Sleep is fitful. I want to be on my way, my time here is done so I should be gone.

In a way, a fair amount has happened and it's given me thought upon thought, layered on me like blankets, each one trapping in a set of experiences to act as insulation in the times to come.

I haven't written the in-between days yet; I may never do. Some of it, I certainly won't.

I dislike the tone of this and my first passage: too lifeless and well, plainly plaintive.

But it's what's coming out. It can be easily expunged from the record of my memories at a button-push, in a way that's just callous compared to the regret I feel when I crumple a piece of paper into a ball and launch it at an overflowing bin but that's not the point. I prefer pen and paper by far, but it will need translation to this medium at some point if I'm to work with it further (not that I intend to) and writing in this way is markedly different in quality from a scrawl. There I'm involved as a bystander, here the screen is my canvas and captures my attention entirely. Which means I miss the opportunity (save through memory, should I be a raconteur) to add elements of what unfolds to the writing, which means I qualify and adapt what was for the purposes of expression, sometimes for the better, sometimes not

I think film might have a use, after all, as opposed to a snapshot film, which I would like, but is too cumbersome. Camera-carrying, that is.

I always knew this morning would be irritating; dead time, time in which I can't settle.

I resolve to have breakfast and get down to this typing. At least I have some sense of purpose then, and I don't feel quite so restless. A little less, but at least I'm doing something.

In the restaurant there's the older Indian fellow and the younger one. I get served by the older fellow and we dance the dance of pleasantries we've come to learn:

"I'll have the - *points* - , please."

"Eggs over-easy?", he questions in his statement-making fashion. "Over-done.", I reply, having learned the correct terminology.

"Brown toast?" is next followed by my "Yes." and a grin. I find the situation, his manner, his failure to learn my egg-eating preference (far fewer, if the truth be known) and his delight in showing he can (and can't remember) me charming. In short, I like the fellow on this level, and as we're unlikely to proceed beyond it….

I overhear younger and older talking. Younger says "I'm going back to school." (presumably college/university unless he's declaring an intent to become a teacher/paedophile/caretaker or acknowledging he's a retard). He might not be, but he's odious. "Ill be working here at most until next summer." He then waffles on about how someone might offer him what I take is a 'better' position once he's had more "school", as opposed to schooling.

The one-upmanship reeks and fills me with yet more distaste for this individual. I know which of the two I consider worthier in the humanity stakes. It's unnecessary to belittle someone, but that's the message he's sending: loud and clear and I return to my American Dream theme: you can climb to the top, but over whose body?

Upon finishing brekkie and wanting to read further about the shootings at M and E and social deprivation (yummy!), I note that within less than 1 minute, slimy young turd interrupts me to clean away the dish. But even his "Excuse me sir", is abrupt and coarse and unfelt and quite simply, abrasive. There's not an ounce of genuineness in him and it covers him like a sheen of 2-day old sweat, ground in and grimy. And stinky.

I had resolved to leave a reasonably large tip for the older fellow. I'm not ascribing any better qualities to him than I would any other person who I didn't know, but I do feel sorry for him in what must be a shitty job and having got as far up the food chain as 'cannon fodder', it's my natural reaction to feel sympathy for someone in that position, other factors depending (after all, young turd can go flush his head down a bog, for all I care. In fact, I'll help him!). And I'll not be a ceaseless font of charity, but leave someone with their dignity and a little victory now and then to help them along, eh?

I leave my customary $2 and curse that shitface has spoilt the moment. No matter if old fellow thinks ill of me, my intentions are good and the outcome can't but be at least ok, surely?

I go to pack, wash and waste time. And see if I can get myself writing again....