flight delayed

At the revolving doors of YOW, I lumbered out of the taxi with uncharacteristic despondency. I don't remember self-tagging my luggage. My pace didn't quicken when I noticed the passengers behind me in the security line twitch with impatience as I fished for electronics and liquids in my large and disorganized duffle.


I fly enough now to chalk the airport process up to a huge nuisance. I cringe at the class privilege of that statement. My eyes no longer dart from cover to cover of bestsellers and glossy magazines on the stands of Relay or Hudson News. I no longer make the traditional purchases of fashion magazines and specialty coffees, because I value the time at the gate and in the air for tedious reading and writing that seems to move more smoothly when I don't have mobile access. I go straight to my gate, plug in, zone out. In fact, I've nearly missed several flights in this state of mind.


At the final call to board (why wait in line with the masses?), I saunter over to the gate/porte - my portal to friends and family on the other side of this vast Canadian land. I anticipate dinner and wine, but I look forward to the interim: to unfastening the tray table, to positioning my laptop on a diagonal to make space for the square napkin hosting a plastic cup of orange juice, to wrapping my neck and lower face in a cotton scarf, and to typing without interruption. 


Giorgio Agamben writes on the camp as 'state of exception', where lawlessness is the state of law. This airport, like every one, might be as close as I get to sensing his zone of indistinction. At the airport, the building's windows are closed. Inside, the rules are nonnegotiable, attendants decide your fate if you make expensive mistakes, and a sense of law and lawlessness - represented by milling clusters of diverse citizenships clutching passports and white tickets - provides pressure and pace to the arid climate.


Today my flight got delayed. I was relieved, because I got more time to charge my laptop (outlets on plane seatbacks are notorious for not working, and on a 6 hour flight, this matters) and write this post.

in brief: a night terror

Last night I dreamt that Stephen Harper and I were hanging out on a lunch break in the CBC cafeteria on Queen Street. He was wearing an ill-fitting peach dress shirt, no tie. I was wearing denim cutoffs. I made a joke about my politics being a little... lefter... than his, and he smiled knowingly and nodded to a set of audio-recorders embedded in my left arm. He'd been listening to my subversive drivel for years. He said something along the lines of, "I know your politics. And they don't make a difference. Because I'm in charge. We should go out on a date sometime."

A) I need to stop running by the Right Honourable's house on my Wednesday tempo training sessions.

B) I need a break from reading the news and political science.

C) I think I have trust issues.

D) I'm ready to go home to B.C. now.