What's so Bad About Dying Anyways?

When you're a kid there will always be certain things which are the shit because you honestly don't know any better. Martin Streek definitely fell into that category.

Growing up Aiya and I depended on the radio for new music. If a new single came out we used to record it off of the radio. I feel like a dinosaur, but I still have cassette tapes, lovingly labeled with artist name, song, date and time. CFNY was my station. Even now when I see Allan Cross walking around downtown I become a total tool. I had a radio in my room that didn't have a recording device on it, just a straight up battery operated radio. When I was in elementary school Martin Streek was an integral part of my life. Thursday night he used to host a show called the Thursday Thirty which counted down the top 30 songs for the week and also introduced new artists. I'd usually fall asleep before the end of the show, but it was Martin who introduced me to Sloan and Radiohead. I'd head to school on Friday mornings feeling like such a badass. Michael and I used to talk music when we should've been doing math, but we used to compare notes and swap artist names. He was an avid Thursday Thirty listener too.

With the dawn of our dial-up internet connection my dependence on the radio slowly began to wane, but all of that changed when I started to work in Sri Lanka. Because of the time difference between Toronto and Colombo I used to catch the Thursday Thirty streamed live on Friday mornings at work. Between that and reading Torontoist and Now online, home didn't seem so far away. I've always said that I become much more patriotic when I'm away from home than when I'm actually here. For a couple of hours every Friday morning I used to feel like I was at home. Without the familiarity of Martin Streek's voice and on air style I doubt I would have felt the same way. That's when I started to understand why the migrant community in Toronto tried so, so hard to hold on to where they came from. Really I was no different, tuning into a Toronto radio station, reading Toronto street magazines. Obviously when I do it's way less fobby. But still.

I found out that Martin had committed suicide via Torontoist on Tuesday morning. When I was on my way home from work Josie Dye (who for the record I cannot EFFING STAND. She and the Dean Blundell Show epitomise everything that's awful with what CFNY now known as edge102 has become) was talking to David Bookman about what had happened. Bookie was just about to take over the afternoon drive shift and one of the first songs that he played in Martin's honour was actually The Lines you Amend by Sloan. It's actually one of my favourite Sloan songs of all time and oh so fitting.

Bye Martin. Toronto is not going to be the same without you. I will miss your voice.


photo from exclaim.ca

When I get stressed out I tend to have really insane dreams. Well, I shouldn't say really insane, but you know. Which I guess goes without saying because most dreams always do have a strong element of wtf. It is however that time of year in the summer semester where there are assignments galore and midterms. That means catching up on a condensed half a year worth of reading I haven't done. To make matters slightly more harrowing I need to point out that I'm a proud student at two different universities. So on Mondays and Wednesdays I'm at U of T and Tuesdays and Thursdays at Ryerson. Oh, did I mention that in the sea of books, papers and shoe receipts that is my room I have misplaced my faithful mouthguard. That ingenious creation that stops me from grinding my teeth and saves me from insomnia. My grinding increases with stress and the insomnia from the teeth grinding brings on the effed up dreams.

Last night I wanted to go to bed early, the weekend was hectic. I've been immersed in Victorian lit (and maybe this is the reason for the dreams? All the repression?!) and wanted to take a minute to send Alby a goodbye note before she headed to Memphis. With all this swirling around in my head I went to bed at an indecent hour and had this dream.

We were headed to London, but as usual running late, got separated and boarded the plane individually. When we were in highschool and went on trips, we were Those Kids. You know, the ones that unspoken-ly got the back of the bus even if they're the very last ones to get on? This plane was no exception. Lo and behold Alby, Labro, Copto, Whoren and even Hoolia were all at the back of the plane. Apparently Labro and I were headed to South Africa after London. (Which seriously, wtf. She's the least likely out of everyone to want to do that. Also, no husband either.)

As we buckled ourselves in for take-off, a flight attendant came by, confiscated my iphone, passport and copy of George Eliot's Middlemarch. (I'm actually frantically trying to finish reading that for my mid-term on Wednesday.) This starts a series of scandalised whispers between the girls because as in real life, I look like ass in my passport picture and the flight attendant was all kinds of good looking.

We make it to London and go our separate ways. Emily leaves me for South Africa and I'm left stranded at the Heathrow (an airport I HATE) because the aforementioned confiscated documents. I head over to a kiosk and try to passively aggresively throw a civilised shit fit. Finally the same flight attendant comes by, gives my shiz back and I get upgraded to business class. (You'd think I'd have fought for 1st class eh? Even in dreams I aim low.) In a Bollywood twist of fate he turns out to be my seat neighbour and he's reading Bleak House. He turns to me and asks if I understand anything about the intricacies of the Victorian-era British legal system. I attempt to explain (sadly it is almost a word-for-word repetition on some short hand notes I made on the topic for my mid-term. I had been going over them earlier on in the evening). We then turn our attention over to George Eliot, banter on about Daniel Deronda, Eliot's supposed Christian fundie phase and her general scandalousness.

Natch at this point, I'm all "OMG. THIS FLIGHT ATTENDANT IS LYK TEH BEST EVAH!!1!one1" Then it happens. He transforms into Optimus Prime and ruins everything.

So what did we learn from all of this?
1. I am a giant nerd even in my dreams and Victorian lit is still totally hot.
2. My subconscious is telling me that I should re-look at going to South Africa.
3. Seeing the new Transformers movie really is a must.
4. I'm sort of effed for my mid-term on Wednesday.

Let's go home!

I haven't written a "real" blog post in awhile. Just don't seem to have the time these days between summer school, work and all the seasonal social obligations. The only time I can actually punch something out is when I'm on the subway. I've been pecking away at this for the last little while and I have no idea if I'll ever get around to finishing it, but it's a partially written post that was thoughtlessly written with my two thumbs on the iphone. I haven't read it over so you're warned...

More often than not these days our conversations around the dinner table always lead to the same thing: Ammi and Thathi retiring to Sri Lanka. I can't say that I'm completely opposed to the idea. The properties that they've been looking at are infinitely more conveniently located than where my grandmother lives. Plus centralised a/c is always ftw in gawdawful Colombo. Generally speaking though when the old couple appeal to me on important issues like proximity to other family members, 'hot spots' and wtf to do with the dog, my wont is to stare back blankly and blink a few times. This has rankled the old man into fits and caused Ammi her fair share of consternation as well. In their minds it would seem that Aiya and I don't give a shit what happens to them so long as they don't move in with either of us during their Golden Years. If I have the good fortune to have Aiya around (which these days is not the case due to the acquisition of a new femme) we will roll our eyes, hold our tongues and display a level of restraint hitherto unknown.

That all changed recently though. I was catching up on my feeds in the kitchen. I happened to start reading a blogpost that someone had written about the scattered Sri Lankan diaspora returning home. It was so asinine, ill conceived and ludicrous I couldn't help but read out a few of the more 'passionate bits' out loud for public ridicule. Ammi and Thathi responded in typical fashion. Mostly because they are generally aware of the writer's status as being an unbearable tosser and also because they don't really view themselves as being your run of the mill conflict-fleeing-Sri Lankans.

I suppose this is something I've meant to write about for some time and nevar could really be arsed to do. Most of you know in bits and pieces what I think and how I feel about the circumstances surrounding our migration as a family. I've never really sat down and gone through the whole thing in any cohesive manner so I guess this is as much for me as it is for you? In light of all the political events that have been unfolding it's unsurprising that I my thoughts on the subject are courted more frequently than in the past.

So here goes?

I'll start from the point that most people find relevant and I feel the need to add the disclaimer that not only do I personally feel it is irrelevant I also don't give a shit. In short, Thathi is Sinhalese and Ammi is Tamil. I know right? It's horrifying.

We lost our home in '83 due to this disgusting twist of fate. They found out that Ammi was Tamil through the voters list and our neighbours torched the house. We knew it was coming and our immediate family left to Thathi's parents place in Ratmalana. Amamma and Ammi's younger siblings weren't so fortunate. Amamma was a well known doctor in the area, her house was razed. She and Punchi mammah ended up in a refugee camp. My aunt saw the worst of it. She was on her way in from the city, saw people being burned alive. I know she used to sometimes wake up screaming from nightmares well into the 1990s. Obviously this is what happened to countless other Tamils in Colombo in 83 so it's really not that special. Needless to say that was the last year any of my Tamil family members ever voted.

Ammi says that one of her earliest memories as a child were houses burning and being hidden in a cupboard. She was very young when the first race riots broke out in the 50s. This whole being Tamil/Sinhalese thing was never an issue within our family, even at the point when Sri Lanka gained independence. My maternal grandfather wouldn't let his children speak Tamil at home and neither would my paternal grandfather. Actually scratch that, speaking the vernacular in either home was forbidden by both families by my great grandparents. I come from a long line of brown sahibs. Don't get me wrong though, I think both the Tamil and sinhalese sides would die if they were termed imperialists. My family were long time LSSP supporters and believed in a free independent Sri Lanka for all Sri Lankans.

I suppose it sounds so cheesey to say this now, but the older generation believed this with great vehemence. The next generation didn't quite get it right. At least not the Sinhalese generation. I learned what marginalization was from them when I made my first visit to Sri Lanka as a teenager.

Ammi's entire family eventually migrated either to Canada, Australia or the UK. I have no male Tamil family left except for 2 who married well established sinhalese women. We were originally slated to go to Australia. Ammi was petrified that we'd get killed for being half Tamil, it didn't make much sense for us to go but they put in their paperwork and Canada was the first to get back to us. In the 1950s my paternal grandfather nearly came to Canada with his young family. I think this was always meant to be our home.

The immigration officer who interviewed us tried to dissuade them from leaving. He didn't think they'd last more than six months in Toronto. Granted looking back my parents haven't got the foggiest clue as to how we made it. He was so intrigued by our family that he actually made a concentrated effort to keep tabs on our progress for close to 15 years. I think that he eventually made it to Cyprus and found himself a wife. That's when we lost touch with him. He's now actually a director in in the refugee and immigration department in Ottawa. It's a shame that Ammi's not as much of a pack rat as Thathi & I because she actually tossed out his letters.

We had a horrible dog named Sandy when we lived in Sri Lanka, actually he was Aiya's dog. Some random stray puppy that a family friend had given him, the kind that would go after chickens and neighbourhood children. Sandy wasn't around for very long if I recall correctly he was given away to the cook within the first few years of his life. Then we came to Canada and I desperately wanted a dog. Aiya and I both begged and begged, but it never happened. Aside from Ammi hating them we couldn't get one because "this is not Sri Lanka, dogs can't roam around outside," "you can barely take care of yourself," "who's going to feed/walk/groom it," and a host of other retarded excuses.

When my childhood home went up for sale one of the conditions that Thathi put on Ammi was that we'd be able to get a dog at the new house. She never really expected that we'd do it. Thathi came from that kind of home where each member of the family had a dog. Granted his dad was a planter and there was more than enough room for five beasts to be scampering about. He's a dog person and wanted one just as much as Aiya and I. So it happened that five years back for Father's Day, three months after we moved we bought Thathi a dog. This dog specifically:



I lied to him and told him that Jack Russell Terriers grow up to be mid-size and they don't shed much. You guys know that I am always covered head to toe in dog hair and it would be generous to say that he's "petite." In he barged into our lives and I'm sure like all first time puppy owners we felt like we had made a huge mistake. Some of my earlier blog posts (which are painful to read and I should just delete them because they're so horrible) document what a nightmare that we had with him.

He's sick and we don't know what's wrong with him. The vet's had him stay overnight because he's on an IV drip they suspect it may be a case of pancreatitis. We just want to bring him home. I went and visited him during my lunch break and he looked absolutely miserable. They had to shave his leg to get the IV apparatus on.



Five just seems like an awfully young age to go.

Blurgh.

I'm feeling a bit muddled so advanced apologies for the following post. Don't judge me. It's not going to make much sense. My advice is to just look at the pictures?



The last week and a bit has seen me drag my ass out of bed in the mornings. Waking up has become decidedly more difficult in recent times. The stupid thing is that I can't sleep in past 9 AM on a Saturday morning anymore which leads me to perch with my laptop in bed to catch-up on work. Lame I know. Invariably this means Oliver manages to wriggle himself into prime laptop real estate rendering work impossible.



I've had that blazer since my first year of university. Got it for 10 bucks at Urban Outfitters in the "preloved" section. It's probably one of the cheapest things that's lasted the longest in my wardrobe. That scarf is a hacked up sarong that someone gave to Aiya thinking he'd wear. If I'm not mistaken it's from Kerala and is something called "digital" batik. Yeah, I don't know what that is either.



The above shade of blue is quickly becoming my favourite colour for this spring/summer. Aunty Esther got me that scarf for my birthday. Although it's hard to believe it looks much better on me than on Oliver. I prefer to not wear it as a burqa.



Most recent frivolous shoe purchase? Purple suede kitten heels for work. That scarf was the result of a Salvation Army rummage sometime near the turn of the last century.



Hey! Look! It's that shade of blue again. I've stopped just randomly going into stores for no reason because 1. pretty soon I will be broke (yay for school!) and 2. I have no self control.



Been rocking a lot of saris lately. This is the one I wore to Ann's wedding.



Got this one for 15 bucks. Ammi would never let me wear this for any kind of Sri Lankan-type function because um, it was 15 bucks and also it doesn't look like someone threw-up sequins all over it. It worked well for Labro's mom's 50th birthday though. (I know, I still can't get over how young her parents are either. Mine are such dinosaurs.) I love the print on it though. It feels so kitschy and I usually couple it with my Lee denim jacket with the collar popped.



Another 15 buck find. What? There was a sale. Haven't had a chance to wear this one yet, I'm thinking maybe this weekend for Labro's shower? I love the blue on this and again the kitsch makes me feel a bit squee. Alas the denim jacket will not work in this situation, the shades of blue don't go. I may need to buy gladiator sandals just to couple with it. Hmmm.



I spent most of today mucking about in the kitchen with tablecloths, bedsheets, random coasters and ramekins. I'm trying to figure out the best way to take pictures of v-manties bridal cakes, mini-cakes and cupcakes for her portfolio. Aiya picked up the cutest glass coaster sets from China town about three summers back to use outside for barbeques. Ammi is so paranoid that they'll shatter and break that they've never even seen the natural light of the sun.



He really is a good sport innit?



This February would have been Mamma and Pappa's 60th wedding anniversary. We had big plans for some sort of hoopla/family reunion, but Pappa had to go and die last year ruining all of that. This is an excerpt from the birthday letter I got from Mamma this year. You probably can't read it, but here's the important bit:

Well as for me, life is very lonely. I miss Pappa so much, I don't think I will ever get back to my former happy life. Though people say that with time life will change, I don't think it will ever be the same with me. Because ours was a very close friendship from school days and God created us for each other and he blessed us to be husband and wife. Our marriage was made in heaven and we were meant for each other. Pray for me putha to bear up this great loss..."

The story of how they hooked up is for another blogpost kids.



Speaking of grandparents though, I got a new pair of glasses that at some point in time all three of of my grandparents rocked. (The large picture is of Amammah that was taken a few months before she died and the wee one is of Mamma and Pappa just after he retired I think.)



Beginning of April is always a bit shitacular because it's the month Amammah died. You know I still have incredibly vivid dreams of her. I wake up thinking that she's alive and it feels so fantastic until I realise it's a dream. Those three books, A Tale of Two Cities, The Old Curiosity Shop and Bleak House were gifted to me by her the year I turned 10. I think I must have been in grade 4? I've got more than one copy of a Tale of Two Cities now because that original one is so tattered. That ghetto ass crocheted blanket that the books are sitting on top of is made up of leftover yarn. She used to knit for charity. Winter hats and mittens for the homeless along with baby things for low-income families. She was fantastic.



What kind of child reads Charles Dickens when they're 10? I was such a freaking nerd eh? Amammah encouraged my ridiculous reading habits and told me that any words I came across that I didn't know I should underline so that she could explain them to me in context. Not sure if she actually expected me to make it through a Tale of Two Cities or not but I carried my 2HB pencil around and made it a point to underline every single word I didn't know. This particular passage had "inexorable," "perpetuation" and "inscrutable" flagged as unknown. I still don't really know what "inexorable" means. (Those are Amammah's old reading glasses.) A Tale of Two Cities remains up there as one of my faveourite books.



When Aiya and I were really small Amammah used to make us a "white chicken curry," which was mild enough for us to eat. I don't know if other Sri Lankan homes functioned like this, but the general guideline at our place was if a meat curry was too hot for a child to eat then said piece of meat would be washed of all spices and given to non-spice eating child. This was terrible because the meat would lack all flavour. She used to make this for us as an alternative. I still get cravings for it and I can't make it exactly the way she did but the above is my vain attempt.

I wish she was still around.