HEN HOUSE SERENADE
Some one of these rainy days a bowl of hot soup might cheer a soul. And a fortune cookie? Ah, but look ( ).
Wouldn't you know? Well, at least it's not misspelled. The cookie stuffer has an emergency supply of unfavorables. She didn't want to dip into the dregs:
Suicide bomber today. (little pink slips) Riots in Russia. Riots in Hong Kong. Riots in Washington. There will be a personalized drive-by shooting. Centuries of inequity will boil over this afternoon. Climate will worsen tomorrow. Submarines, missile launchers, hearts and minds primed with hate, ready to blow. Mutually Assured Destruction is armed, ready, willing and able to render earth radioactive.
Advertised in weekly mailers, eggs for hot and sour soup are a luxury in plain sight. The competitive price is on the carton, a bargain. Unit price relative to world population is not shown. Enough eggs for everyone isn't considered, and it's of no concern for producers, advertisers or politicians. But imagine . . .
Would there be enough land, unused and arable, to grow chicken feed, and food for their keepers? With enough left over to house them all? And don't forget the weather.
And then recall that, so far as we know, humans and chickens exist only here. If aliens are listening to our radio shows, they might find this amusing. When they get over it, I'll bet they suggest we make fewer humans rather than more chickens.
It raises a nagging suspicion. Our fortune, though not yet quite readable, is still not up to par. We have circled the wagons round what?
Raindrops fall. The further back they're traced, the more diffuse their origin. And we find nothing there. When nothing becomes the object of an investigation, it then becomes something.
But this can't be.
The mind tortures itself with such questions. Existentialism is herded into a house of mirrors. And there, at last, the annoyance is subjugated, restrained, and placed under house arrest. The beginning was when? Where?
Excellent! It's a tough nut to crack.
Find an acorn. Ask which came first, the tree, or . . .
It's not that there's no exit. Raindrops fall. The human brain and heart are mostly water, which has no inherent memory. It assumes several forms, changing from one to another, becoming both an entry and an exit. The discursive mind exists in a sea that knows no boundaries.
This planet – chickens, farmers and all – is evolving in a universe of constant change. To be human allows one to freely appreciate galaxies, chickens, other sentient beings, or a drop of water – the most precious thing in the universe.
Will this consciousness penetrate the MADness of crowds?
When I was a kid, we had chickens. My job was to feed them. And one of my favorite jobs, because everyone thought it was boring. So no one else would be around. My friends could cluck and fuss around my feet. We had conversations.
