Canada in the belly of the whale

In scorned isolation Canada has abdicated being a responsible member of the world community.

Hiding out in the belly of the whale is a handy retreat in trying times, but then again….

Does my beloved Canada only exist on July 1st of each year, as we wave a few flags, dress in red and then retreat into our bashful anonymous existence? It appears as no more than a token undertaking. Where has the “true north strong and free”gone ? … AWOL it appears. Losing its senses as freedom and speech, and “peace, order, and good government” are suddenly passé. The barren lands have invaded the soul of the country. Parliament whispers in the growing dark, pettifoggery and artless dodgery rule the chambers.

We used to speak for peace but suddenly our tongues are tied as the world is threatened with terminal violence and momentous change taking place. It seems our popinjay politicians have retired, abdicated, been seconded? Who is to know? They have nothing to say as they are nothing more than conceited cocks of walk.

If you look at the flag on our garden door, it is the Cascadian flag. Our modest patch of ground has been declared a Cascadian enclave and we have a mighty hemlock to prove it . It is our deeply rooted declaration of indepence and freedom to be and speak.

Flag of Cascadia

It is a flag of both lament and prophecy. It is a lament for the Canada I used to know, so rapidly fading. It is the flag of hope and promise as I embrace a new identity. The world changes and maps are perpetually redrawn. By the hand of man there is too much folly, we must adapt.

Canada is a land of failed consciousness and limited vocabulary. It is the sleeping Jonah swallowed by the voracious whale— a nice hors d'oeuvre for a whale with a monstrous appetite. Poor Jonah, he was never so nimble of wit and tongue to save himself from being eaten alive. Within the stomach of the whale a listless life goes on indifferent to the other fish in the seas of change.

There are faint rumblings of petty discontents from the stomach of the whale while the other fish of the sea are schooled in tyranny, survival of the fittest and the despotism of the dying whale.

In the belly of the whale there is the discontent of many provinces, sleep walking politicos, disingenuous Opposition carpet baggers lusting after the perks of power, a populace abandoned into cynicism and betrayal, with vague notions of further betrayal.

The fish of the sea do not speak well of absentee Canada, rumors abound of a prime minister ”immature and juvenile”, mocked in the media, one scandal after another, ethical lapses and persistent accusations of narcissism. Politicos indulge in lush compensation and the promise of fat pensions numbing them into silence, fore going responsibility to speak out on the crises of the day. People are really dying, children are crying, bombs are dropping, with a lot of petty bickering in the whale’s belly.

Too many others are along for the ride as world’s collide, as the whale rips out its own belly on the rocky shoals of predestination, defying the dictates of history.

Colonized nations suffer a death wish running from the truths of their existence and the realities of our time. Life in the whale’s belly can be a suffocating experience, especially after its beaching.

“Peace” is the tree requiring constant watering