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October 8th 2009

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    The sky has fallen on Hens.  The idea of them in a gated community here amongst Coyote, Fox, Grey Cat and chicken Hawk, has struck a final chord in imagination.

    I could blame a surfeit of research, but suffice perhaps to say that I never wore bell-bottoms willingly.  My pair came free of charge from a Laundromat.  I remember putting them on, aghast at the thought of them and disappointed they fit.

    It is an allergy to fashionableness that might follow the Newtonian interpretation of biblical prophecy because it looks at two things that allow a third.   This allergy leads to a tangential view of fellow beings, by providing interstitial insights into the human condition, so granting an opportunity to open the portals of new meaning.  For Newton it was an interpretation more important than gravity.  So why not for me.

    The observers location, however, consistently fails because its root still reaches toward belonging and when that cannot be found it yearns for a perceivable value, which in the end, cannot be attained by isolation.  In another way, I think of the hermit and I wish for completeness, rather than loneliness, and I remain who I am.

    Then from a tangential location it is too easy to derive a smug dialectic.  That give and take, that backward and forward, which concludes with an observation of process.  Inevitably, thought determines a "being in time", and inevitably thought sees "choice" as the antidote to slavery.  As it has done without uniqueness for the past several millennium, and yet every fifty years it is called original.  So inevitably observation of process leads to acceptance, until anger or stubbornness asserts itself in that irrational way.  

 

    But Hens are a declaration of what?  I could call them an expression.  A rational engagement in a dialectic.  Or I can obsess on associated images of coops, and brown eggs and sunshine and daises and aren't we clever and egg gathering garb and why did sailors wear bell-bottoms anyway and perhaps a vanity plate HENSRI.  

   Possibly I am lazy.  Possibly the sky has fallen on Hens because I cannot muster sufficient confidence of husbandry to appear in this dream world as a diligent keeper of Hens.  Which would be an easy way out for me.  I could fall for this excuse without remorse and without sense of personal flaw.   And yet when I delve deep into the tea leaves, it is the angst of "Hen Fashionableness" that has turned me sour on Hens.  A quite shameful thing to admit, but one I would not have to endure were I a hermit, or isolated, or without a care of belonging beyond pursuit of protein.

    Clearly I represent the fall of man.  That side of being that declines enthusiasm for useful things in favor of a mental condition that matches me to the word 'nutcase'.  So call me insipid, a sort of taupe in the rainbow of life, but leave me with 'tangential nutcase' rather than 'irrational nutcase', because now might be the time to start wearing bell-bottoms or kilts, or pantaloons or a Henin hat and wimple on my next trip into town.

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tim candler

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