At the Tourist Centre in Boston There is my country under glass, a white relief- map with red dots for the cities, reduced to the size of a wall and beside it 10 blownup snapshots one for each province, in purple-browns and odd reds, the green of the trees dulled; all blues however of an assertive purity. Mountains and lakes and more lakes (though Quebec is a restaurant and Ontario the empty interior of the parliament buildings), with nobody climbing the trails and hauling out the fish and splashing in the water but arrangements of grinning tourists- look here, Saskatchewan is a flat lake, some convenient rocks where two children pose with a father and the mother is cooking something in immaculate slacks by a smokeless fire, her teeth white as detergent. Whose dream is this, I would like to know" is this a manufactured hallucination, a cynical fiction, a lure for export only? I seem to remember peopel, at least in the cities, also slush, machines and assorted garbage. Perhaps that was my private mirage which will just evaporate when I go back. Or the citizens will be gone, run off to the peculiarly- green forests to wait among the brownish mountains for the platoons of tourists and plan their odd red massacres. Unsuspecting window lady, I ask you: Do you see nothing watching you from under the water? Was the sky ever that blue? Who really lives there? |