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
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.
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
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.