So they think I am you and you am I do they? Well they are usually wrong and this is no exceptional exception. Of course the joke is I am writing to me(you) as I and then I (you)will write back to me as you. So we, I, have 'em fooled don't I? As long as we don't get your altered egos mixed. The potions must be extremely pure and the chemist has been giving dosages that are not as strong as needed of late. I feel am fading to me, or you are fading to I ... I am getting dizzy.. weak... numb... strange things are all around me .. people talking ...
or
Is it our imagination?
The man blindly stumbled in the road, feeling his way as if carefully remembering his way from the dark recesses of his mind. He was on his way to his girlfriend, Victoria Radisson's cottage on the peninsula, far from the madding crowd. She was the son of Irish Immigrants from prehistoric Britain, and had lived so long on this BC island that she was no longer in need of a sex change operation. Anyway, everyone out west was weird enough that they took no notice of her eccentricities, nor did they appear to notice that she only spoke french, although they spoke not a word of it.
(Even the prime minister of Western Canada wore an earring, although a Baptist minister and drummed nervously with his left foot and looked around wildly when asked to spell his name or answer a simple question. It was said he was hurt in an accident while trying to save a whale from a fishing net, so no one would criticize his apparent shortcomings. Others averred he had fallen from a motorcycle when he escaped from a police raid on a hotspring hideaway of dubious reputation.
He looked at his watch and noticed that he was early. He must not arrive too early as it would look suspicious to those who were watching his every move. He slowed his pace. Would he ever know the real reason he was banished to a provincial backwater by the only newspaper in Quebec who would hire him, Le Devoir? He had been taken on as a token English speaking reporter, ostensibly to server as foreign correspondent to Western Canada. It seemed unlikely that he would ever unravel the complexities and ironies of the gallic mentality. His was but to report the truth of the strange and staid anglo life as incomprehensible as it was to their devil-may-care and incredulous counterparts of the libre province.
"What?" they would exclaim, "three weeks have gone by in this bloody capitol town and not one hostage has been taken in a hijacking of a corner store? What kind of people are these Columbians? Do they die before they are born? Sacre bleu!"
It was true. They would think he was making it up. Covering up the wild and salacious goings on that the anglo hid from his jealous french rivals, but he grimly was determined to keep printing it, or the lack of it, no matter whether he was believed or not. It would lead to revolution. They would believe they were being lied to. It had to come to a head. But he shrugged off the doubt. His greater duty lay with the truth as he saw it, no matter how bland, or what the consequences of its revelation.
More to come.
EC<:-} |
