Ethel Rackin

Roam

  • I conjure it and so it comes. Meanwhile, the statues stare at me, waiting for a timely answer. What will I say? Will I run? Of course, I will. You would too if you were being chased by lions who, however gorgeous, aren’t exactly friendly to humans. It seems increasingly my fellow countrymen don’t understand this logic, I write to my Canadian friend, to which he agrees: Yes, it seems your country’s become almost ungovernable, not to mention the number of guns. It’s everywhere—the melodrama, the question of the real, the feel of things increasingly tinny. But who am I to complain when I’ve had it so good for so long, I respond. Where shall I roam?
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