prospect of cultivating hens for their eggs has filled me with a series of
anxieties which remind me that I belong amongst those with the personality
of a tortoises. So instead, for a while, I think perhaps I should
appear as a hen on Facebook. There will be no eggs, but that will
not stop me from pretending there are.
daily substance will belong to feather care, toiletries and egg
color. I will ask other hens to photograph me in bars, and this so I
might not be assumed to lack the rakish character so central to that
sectarian maverick-i-ness the well adjusted cling to with such
passion. Alternatively I could be a Christian hen and have myself photographed
at the church door while wearing a bonnet, my wings around a clutch of
properly fertilized seed. Better perhaps to be a Muslim hen, then
all that might be necessary is an image of my beak, a passport and a
suitable slogan. And then again I might be an otherwise spiritual
hen, attached to some convoluted concept of goodness that only requires
the cooing of long words to exist and which only I truly grasp.
Central to this image though will be
"what I am selling". Or should I perhaps use the more
neutral expression "why am I networking". I am not ready to
believe however that hens sell fantastic-ness or smugness or cuteness or
look-at-me-ness or any one of those besotted images of self that a spell in
the penitentiary is generally a good cure for. I prefer to believe
there might be something beyond the shrouds that tortoises see.
Then there is the question of what
is it I do on these pages, if not an attempt at one or all of the above
mentioned frailties. And here there is enlightenment, because after
inspection of some of the eggs I have laid, I believe I am already a
hen. So, when sometime next spring I finally meet the reality of hen,
I think we should get along just fine.
An irritating immodesty you might
think. But then quite happily as a tortoise I am a pompous ass.