- Jun 21, 2008
- 162
- 1
- 119
Please take time to read the story my husband wrote. I think you will find it entertaining.
Home to Roost
Rush Limbaugh was a very good rooster. A true Americana Easter-Egger. Like his namesake, he had a compulsive attraction to fresh manure. Innately drawn to it, he would fearlessly assay those steaming piles and, if found worthy, issue a raucous benediction to convene his always hungry flock. That iconic behavior had earned him his name. But unlike his namesake, he was elseways a pretty good bird, steady and predictable, who called attention to himself only in selfless service, which made his recent behavior stand a bit proud.
Mrs. McGurdy flew through her kitchen, her basket of yet undated eggs making a bumpy landing on the breakfast table as she navigated the shortest course about it towards her computer in the far corner of that room. Her 'Chicken People' had to hear about this.
She reached over the chair and lanced the 'on' button. With one eye locked on the morphing screen, she backed away to find, for her racing mind, sufficient maneuvering room to reconcile what she had seen with what she knew. Her hands brailed about some quest of their own.
When the images finally congealed on what her husband called the 'mind leach', she settled before it, her focus tightening as one hand traced upon the keyboard various spells-of-opening. She counted heartbeats until communion, and wondered a bit at the empty tea cup clutched in her other hand.
Her world had been hermitic since she had come to the country in search of an inner peace and a good place to raise chickens. The harsh brew that had been her experience of mean birds on her grandmother's ranch had, over decades of gardening a strong family in the thin soil of urban chaos, mellowed into a soothing elixer which balmed the jangles of her life with healing visions of safety and tranquility and karmic purpose; and finally guided her to this place. Now, after several years of hard lessons, her dream, her 'feather family', was alive and well.
Her solace was the natural ebb and flow of their lives, especially during morning and evening feedings. At daybreak, each volley of comestibles that she launched made the flock explode into a slapstick melee, each fowl for itself, chasing, capturing, defending, until the next sent them madly off in another direction. Mrs. McGurdy found in this, great entertainment, choreographing their impromptu dance about the chicken yard with well-practiced timing and good aim. Special scraps were reserved for the joys of 'keep away'. These were so coveted that they would wildly pursue its holder about the yard until it was snatched away. Because they found eating while running difficult, this folly could continue for some time until the players were exhausted. Then some little one would grab it and repair to where the big birds could not follow.
Rush's alpha-mate, Atilla-the-Hen, considered transgressions of hierarchy within her purview, interpreting the proximity to a miscreant as authorization to deliver her catechism, usually taxing them a feather or two for her services.
If Mrs. McGurdy waited quietly, she could witness the marvelous metamorphosis of her now sated charges into the quail and dove and wrens who thought her birds quite wasteful.
Near dusk, her range-fatigued charges stumbled home to feed quietly, saving any residual energy to negotiate for a good sleeping perch. Mrs. McGurdy often judged this tired passion play while tucking-up her torpid charges, wisely ruling out injustice. This was 'right'! She had become a 'Chicken Person', grounded by the ancient rhythms of their lives.
But she also had sensed a growing loneliness, a waxing nostalgia for the casual social interchange so ubiquitous with high population densities, and so unavailable way out here. This ended abruptly with her discovery that there were other 'Chicken People' seeking more of their kind on the internet. Now driven by profound discovery, she finally mastered enough of her computer's arcane dance steps to finally minimize the usual trauma to her psychological toes. She had learned to network.
On their website, she typed....
"While I was feeding this morning, Rush flew to the top of the corral fence and looked me straight in he eye. With both of his eyes. Then, without looking away, he lifted his left wing and shuffled a foot or so to the left and dropped that wing. Then he lifted his right wing and shuffled another foot to the left and dropped the wing. Then he lifted both wings, crowed three times, and jumped off. I saw something like this a few days ago, on the morning after that lunar eclipse, but I really didn't pay attention. But this time I did! This is what he did. Am I going crazy?" <send>
This pebble, so casually tossed into the waters of the world wide web, triggered a tsunami of similar observations that swept around the planet. That day, 37 reports echoed similar behavior from roosters only, and of many different breeds.
Over the next three weeks, on a roughly three day cycle, hundreds of permutations of these behaviors had emerged. This had to be some kind of communication. Some of the Chicken People began to involve their agricultural and scientific contacts. Formal curiosity was stimulated. But just as the powerful scientific spotlight was being brought to bear, the behavior abruptly vanished. All of their chickens were just chickens again.
In the urban legend world of the web, interest quickly decayed into derision, invoking the spectre of 'Hoax!'. Being unprepared to 'scientifically' validate their observations, the 'Chicken People' had assembled only scant hard evidence of the happening. The few grainy videos that had been proudly put forward were immediately morphed into YouTube parodies, which cast the naive Chicken People in a most unflattering light. Attempts to demonstrate the behaviors met a worse fate on late night comedy. Mockers invaded their formally happy chin-wags.
Stung and bewildered, the Chicken People retreated, limiting speculations about the wondrous behaviors to proven friends only. Fortunately the brevity of the public attention span soon allowed them to drift back into deep anonymity.
Six months later, the strange behaviors returned. For several days after each full moon, more complex patterns emerged, to be covertly chronicled throughout the community. This private world bonded the derided Chicken People with common mission... to, by themselves, understand what was this 'chicken code' was. Compulsive and insightful web researchs surfaced patterns in genetics and epigenetics and paleogenetics. Fascinating new feeding and breeding possibilities led to vigorous experiments in direct discovery. The Chicken People knew that they were chasing a truth far greater than themselves.
------------------------------------------
Rush focused the Flock on Mrs. McGurdy's mind, holding it open by dancing his latest joke.
The Flock easily plucked out the results of her last research assignment, then stuffed in 'inspirations' for her next. He finished, then waited. In the moments before her mind closed to him,
he could see the myriad other 'jokes' that had been told that day.
Even the infinitesimal fraction of the Flock that was Rush, himself, could see the whole as it instantaneously absorbed, processed and placed each new piece of the puzzle. The picture became clearer every day.
Today, he saw that on the kangaroo island they had discovered the correct combination of foods and breeds to express the recessive talpid2 gene, which reintroduced teeth, and with them, a strong penchant for fresh animal protein. 7 'monsters' there quickly grew to the size of geese. The commercial possibilities were nullified when they began to 'hunt' the other chickens. The morning after the decision was taken to terminate them, they were all found missing. "Don't worry. The dingoes'll get 'em!" had proven ...... optimistic.
He saw that billions of his kind has been enslaved, each condemned by genetic perversion to a short, pitiful, caged existence followed close by a meaningless death, merely to provide human feed.
He saw how the vast, pent-up life energies of those sacrifices had broken the ancient prison walls of 'flock', freeing tiny minds to spill forth and flow together in ever expanding flood of chaotic perceptions, releasing a heat that finally boiled them down to a single sea of awareness and intent, the Flock.
He saw how Nature addressed disharmony by allowing corrective forces to build in magnitude, slowly, over time, until suddenly releasing them, like an earthquake, to shake down that which violated Her intent.
He saw that humans, who dominated this world, had abrogated their rightful charter to join together and bring about peace through formation of their own Mind, preferring instead to systematically pillage that world and to destroy each other, leaving the vacuum that was filled by the Flock
He saw that within him were endless colors on a genetic palate that stretched back to the beginnings of time, now being blended by the Flock and applied to create old and new forms on the canvas life.
And he saw that his distant ancestors had been bigger. Much, much bigger.
Home to Roost
Rush Limbaugh was a very good rooster. A true Americana Easter-Egger. Like his namesake, he had a compulsive attraction to fresh manure. Innately drawn to it, he would fearlessly assay those steaming piles and, if found worthy, issue a raucous benediction to convene his always hungry flock. That iconic behavior had earned him his name. But unlike his namesake, he was elseways a pretty good bird, steady and predictable, who called attention to himself only in selfless service, which made his recent behavior stand a bit proud.
Mrs. McGurdy flew through her kitchen, her basket of yet undated eggs making a bumpy landing on the breakfast table as she navigated the shortest course about it towards her computer in the far corner of that room. Her 'Chicken People' had to hear about this.
She reached over the chair and lanced the 'on' button. With one eye locked on the morphing screen, she backed away to find, for her racing mind, sufficient maneuvering room to reconcile what she had seen with what she knew. Her hands brailed about some quest of their own.
When the images finally congealed on what her husband called the 'mind leach', she settled before it, her focus tightening as one hand traced upon the keyboard various spells-of-opening. She counted heartbeats until communion, and wondered a bit at the empty tea cup clutched in her other hand.
Her world had been hermitic since she had come to the country in search of an inner peace and a good place to raise chickens. The harsh brew that had been her experience of mean birds on her grandmother's ranch had, over decades of gardening a strong family in the thin soil of urban chaos, mellowed into a soothing elixer which balmed the jangles of her life with healing visions of safety and tranquility and karmic purpose; and finally guided her to this place. Now, after several years of hard lessons, her dream, her 'feather family', was alive and well.
Her solace was the natural ebb and flow of their lives, especially during morning and evening feedings. At daybreak, each volley of comestibles that she launched made the flock explode into a slapstick melee, each fowl for itself, chasing, capturing, defending, until the next sent them madly off in another direction. Mrs. McGurdy found in this, great entertainment, choreographing their impromptu dance about the chicken yard with well-practiced timing and good aim. Special scraps were reserved for the joys of 'keep away'. These were so coveted that they would wildly pursue its holder about the yard until it was snatched away. Because they found eating while running difficult, this folly could continue for some time until the players were exhausted. Then some little one would grab it and repair to where the big birds could not follow.
Rush's alpha-mate, Atilla-the-Hen, considered transgressions of hierarchy within her purview, interpreting the proximity to a miscreant as authorization to deliver her catechism, usually taxing them a feather or two for her services.
If Mrs. McGurdy waited quietly, she could witness the marvelous metamorphosis of her now sated charges into the quail and dove and wrens who thought her birds quite wasteful.
Near dusk, her range-fatigued charges stumbled home to feed quietly, saving any residual energy to negotiate for a good sleeping perch. Mrs. McGurdy often judged this tired passion play while tucking-up her torpid charges, wisely ruling out injustice. This was 'right'! She had become a 'Chicken Person', grounded by the ancient rhythms of their lives.
But she also had sensed a growing loneliness, a waxing nostalgia for the casual social interchange so ubiquitous with high population densities, and so unavailable way out here. This ended abruptly with her discovery that there were other 'Chicken People' seeking more of their kind on the internet. Now driven by profound discovery, she finally mastered enough of her computer's arcane dance steps to finally minimize the usual trauma to her psychological toes. She had learned to network.
On their website, she typed....
"While I was feeding this morning, Rush flew to the top of the corral fence and looked me straight in he eye. With both of his eyes. Then, without looking away, he lifted his left wing and shuffled a foot or so to the left and dropped that wing. Then he lifted his right wing and shuffled another foot to the left and dropped the wing. Then he lifted both wings, crowed three times, and jumped off. I saw something like this a few days ago, on the morning after that lunar eclipse, but I really didn't pay attention. But this time I did! This is what he did. Am I going crazy?" <send>
This pebble, so casually tossed into the waters of the world wide web, triggered a tsunami of similar observations that swept around the planet. That day, 37 reports echoed similar behavior from roosters only, and of many different breeds.
Over the next three weeks, on a roughly three day cycle, hundreds of permutations of these behaviors had emerged. This had to be some kind of communication. Some of the Chicken People began to involve their agricultural and scientific contacts. Formal curiosity was stimulated. But just as the powerful scientific spotlight was being brought to bear, the behavior abruptly vanished. All of their chickens were just chickens again.
In the urban legend world of the web, interest quickly decayed into derision, invoking the spectre of 'Hoax!'. Being unprepared to 'scientifically' validate their observations, the 'Chicken People' had assembled only scant hard evidence of the happening. The few grainy videos that had been proudly put forward were immediately morphed into YouTube parodies, which cast the naive Chicken People in a most unflattering light. Attempts to demonstrate the behaviors met a worse fate on late night comedy. Mockers invaded their formally happy chin-wags.
Stung and bewildered, the Chicken People retreated, limiting speculations about the wondrous behaviors to proven friends only. Fortunately the brevity of the public attention span soon allowed them to drift back into deep anonymity.
Six months later, the strange behaviors returned. For several days after each full moon, more complex patterns emerged, to be covertly chronicled throughout the community. This private world bonded the derided Chicken People with common mission... to, by themselves, understand what was this 'chicken code' was. Compulsive and insightful web researchs surfaced patterns in genetics and epigenetics and paleogenetics. Fascinating new feeding and breeding possibilities led to vigorous experiments in direct discovery. The Chicken People knew that they were chasing a truth far greater than themselves.
------------------------------------------
Rush focused the Flock on Mrs. McGurdy's mind, holding it open by dancing his latest joke.
The Flock easily plucked out the results of her last research assignment, then stuffed in 'inspirations' for her next. He finished, then waited. In the moments before her mind closed to him,
he could see the myriad other 'jokes' that had been told that day.
Even the infinitesimal fraction of the Flock that was Rush, himself, could see the whole as it instantaneously absorbed, processed and placed each new piece of the puzzle. The picture became clearer every day.
Today, he saw that on the kangaroo island they had discovered the correct combination of foods and breeds to express the recessive talpid2 gene, which reintroduced teeth, and with them, a strong penchant for fresh animal protein. 7 'monsters' there quickly grew to the size of geese. The commercial possibilities were nullified when they began to 'hunt' the other chickens. The morning after the decision was taken to terminate them, they were all found missing. "Don't worry. The dingoes'll get 'em!" had proven ...... optimistic.
He saw that billions of his kind has been enslaved, each condemned by genetic perversion to a short, pitiful, caged existence followed close by a meaningless death, merely to provide human feed.
He saw how the vast, pent-up life energies of those sacrifices had broken the ancient prison walls of 'flock', freeing tiny minds to spill forth and flow together in ever expanding flood of chaotic perceptions, releasing a heat that finally boiled them down to a single sea of awareness and intent, the Flock.
He saw how Nature addressed disharmony by allowing corrective forces to build in magnitude, slowly, over time, until suddenly releasing them, like an earthquake, to shake down that which violated Her intent.
He saw that humans, who dominated this world, had abrogated their rightful charter to join together and bring about peace through formation of their own Mind, preferring instead to systematically pillage that world and to destroy each other, leaving the vacuum that was filled by the Flock
He saw that within him were endless colors on a genetic palate that stretched back to the beginnings of time, now being blended by the Flock and applied to create old and new forms on the canvas life.
And he saw that his distant ancestors had been bigger. Much, much bigger.
