I want to write a piece on the history of Canada, considering how the sesquicentennial celebration is happening this year. It has to work in ways which aren’t clichéd as hell… I’m thinking of relating the whole concept of this country at large with some tie-ins to ideas elaborated on in Whitherburo, without the racism or sweeping generalizations of that work coming into play with my own. There’s this sensation I’ve had for years, and it’s always told me that this country is some sort of boreal Australia, a land with thousands of years of human history being submerged into the lifeless carcasses of museums, ones run by the descendants of those that only ever saw this continent as a den of commodities to extract for instrumental purposes. For you Americans that might be unfamiliar with this one, the Hudson’s Bay Company is one of the oldest corporations that’s still in operation, and it was behind a huge chunk of the land claims that “legitimized” the idea of Canada in armored eyes. With the ever-present howls of the ghosts that inhabit this decimated landscape, I want to do something that goes against the constant advertisements of leaf-facepainted cheerleaders, masturbating to hockey and grim-faced RCMP officers. The darkness of Canada may be more nuanced than the honest worldeating tendencies of the United States, but it’s certainly still there.
Declan walked into the tent, drunk, but still alert. A successful attack on the Hudson Bay Company had given them plenty of furs, food, and drink. Michael had stayed back at the camp, and now it was late.
But Declan had a thirst. Not just for drink, but for the pretty little fox who sometimes shared his bedroll. He walked over, drinking out of the flask, and tossed it aside once it was empty, and pulled the furs off of Michael.
He flipped him over onto his stomach and got down on his knees.