Independence: Views from the Farm on the Hill, Part 1

In the countryside, around Gatesville rests the House of the Chickens. The house is a bit shabby, it sags in the way most uncared for houses sag, but the neighbors maintain it to appease its occupants, a flock of magical chickens.

I'm sorry to use the word “magical,” but there's no better way to describe them. For a handful of corn, the chickens will tell you your fortune. For help patching the roof, they'll tell you your future. Upset them, and only he sky will weep for you.

It's not easy to tell if your chickens are magic, but it should come as no surprise that Farmer Sly realized. Once you are blessed with the birth of a two-headed cow, you start to pay attention to the weird parts of the Earth. Pay enough attention to the weird parts of the Earth, and you'll develop a gamboling addictions. To settle a bet, Sly had to buy an old farmhouse and fill it with chickens To the surprise of everyone in the neighborhood, The chickens adapted to their lodging better than expected, They soon got power established, doors functional and the old well pump back in order. By they, I mean the chickens. Farmer Sly was sleeping under six feet of dirt by the time this happened.

While owning a wondrous house where chickens live like people was a neat thing to have, Farmer Sly's son (hereby known as Farmer Sly) had other plans for the property. He envisioned a fancy farm mansion sitting proudly where the Chicken House stood, and as he was a bit of a gambler too, happened to have the money to build this palace of the prairie. However something strange happened every time Farmer Sly visited the Chicken house...

Numbers appeared scratched in the dirt. Every day, the same numbers. Soon, Sly started to notice that the hens were laying eggs in a similar pattern... the same as the numbers repeating over and over.

A normal man might have reached for the whiskey under the sink, and called up either a psychiatrist or a priest. Nor Farmer Sly. He used the numbers for the Power Ball.

Once he collected his millions, Farmer Sly tore his own house down and build his mansion on that. A couple months later though he got loose on the bottle, and spilled his secrets at the tavern. A legend was born that night, and proved true in the morning.

The children who live behind the gravestones though, sing a different song. The gist of it is that the Chickens of Death are stinky. When their mother heard it, she dropped her plate. No one had told the children of the Death Chicken., When she found out that I had not taught the children about the beast either, she grew very quiet. I can understand. It's hard to live in a place like Independence when your children pay attention to the weird parts of the Earth.

Some filler, For Friday

“Man, It's a Good Friday,” said Slim, looking out the window on Queen Street.

“If you say so,” said the Mannequin. “I can never tell the days apart.”

If Slim could have shaken it's head, it would have. “Can't you see? Friday is when the people wear black coats and booties across the street!”

“You know fully well I can't, at least in the Euclidean sense,” snapped the pale statuette. “Besides, people always walk by wearing black coats and booties. I think your perception of times is skewed.”

“You're skewed.” snapped Slim.

“I'm supposed to be, it makes me attractive to the passer-by! Calling me skewed is like me telling you that you're crooked.”

“What's that supposed to mean,” Wailed Slim, dander rising.

“It means that you ARE a window crack. It makes sense that you're kinda crooked.” The Mannequin ungraciously replied.

“I don't know why I talk to you, “ snarled Slim.

The Mannequin didn't reply. Silence spread across the window display like a creeping frost. People came into the store, people left the store. Just before the lights were turned off for the evening, they marveled at the peace and quiet below.

For them, at least, it was a good Friday.

Not In Tents, But Close Enough

Hi friends, I'm writing this blog from the world famous city of Fresno California, where I am House Camping!

What's house camping you might ask: It's when I realize how pampered I have become.

A kind man has opened an unused part of his duplex to me; the catch is that there's no hot water, no WiFi,, no laundry, and no cooking utensils It's like a permanent tent with a sleeping bag inside.

Don't get me wrong, I am eternally grateful to him for putting me up, many of the above “nos” he will cover. For example, I can shower at his place. We're going to a laundromat today and I can find internet where I can.

Two days ago, I was listening to a description of how an atmospheric emp blast would wipe out 90% of humanity who are dependent on electricity, and I scoffed. People have lived for tens of thousands of years without it. They will be fine...

I'm not scoffing now.

This is good. It will teach me a way to live that I haven't done in a number of years. My main concern is one of communications and community – how will I be able to adapt to this landscape when I can't get WiFi? How can I blog Daily? How can I social media?

Scheduling. That's how. Most apps let certain posts be put out into the aether without me hitting send, and that's what I must do. Generate ahead of time and then send it out. Which reminds me... I gotta put together more plans getting this onto my phone...

Waffles!

Hello, Far looking space cowboys!

This blog is an infinitesimal blip across the starry sky, long neglected, but for the next forty days will be sprung anew with new works and old memories!

What shall transpire? I frankly don't know. Each day of Lent (remember, Sundays are off) will sprout a new blog, as is commanded. If you have any comments, perhaps I'll oblige.

Meanwhile, I'll be dusting off my dusty style, and promising to fill you in in the least metaphorical way possible. Concrete examples make great shoes, as they always say.

Anyway, It's good to be back. It's weird feeling my voice crack under the lack of use. I almost wrote misuse... but realized that it could be taken too many ways.
|Regardless, as always,

Waffles!

Three Days of Whiskey and Wine - 2: Lies

Half the day ceased to be before the three awoke. With a minimum amount of searching, the couple found food that the quiet one could eat. He could only eat non-living things, while in the couple the man preferred food that was alive, and the woman couldn't stand anything with legs.

Under the hot, hot, heat of the post-noonpoctalyptic sun, the tall quiet one became a mirage, promising his return as he melted into the sewers. The couple gathered the belongings he left behind; a corn cob pipe, an old silk hat, to lumps of coal and a button, and used them to barter for an umbrella. They then climbed atop a slow moving caterpillar as it ambled its way into town, and kissed chastely under the bumbershoot's shade.

The caterpillar decided to quit moving in front of a poster showing a lobster composing on a typewriter, a glass of whiskey in its claw. The couple went their separate ways at this point, she to find bleach sold by munchkins, he to escape the heat within a giant cow. Above them, the sky buzzed with the wings of giant mechanical insects. The hooded milk police were out, enforcing the practice of calcium absorption. This left the woman feeling distinctly ill at ease.

The couple found each other by the bronze artist – who, horrified at what his art had become, used himself as his greatest casting. When discovered, the city put him on display in a public park, near the library. The couple embraced, then noticed that they had drawn the attention of a man in a hood. Terrified, they raced for safety, dodging giant beetles and caterpillars, as the great mechanical moth (glowing red in the setting sun's light) cast its blazing glare about the city for the lovers.

The couple stopped before a massive anthill built up behind the glass tower where they had watched the sky explode the night before. The hooded police were frightened of the insects that stood as big as people, and would not come near – but the ants would capture and devour the couple too, if they discovered. They slowly dug into the dirt, covering each other to escape notice, and waited until the hooded ones became bored. Unfortunately for the couple, a giant worm appeared and swallowed them whole before the hunt was over. The world went dark, and the couple knew no more.

Miraculously, they lived. The worm left them soiled but unhurt, above ground in a wood not far from the couple's hovel. They washed, and ate, then passed wine between them as they laughed themselves to sleep with stories of their day.

Time passes, the stars encircle the sky. Day 2 weakens and slips away.

Winter is Coming

This morning the first tendrils of Winter were knocking gently on my window.

“Go away, Winter, we don’t want any,” I said. It did not listen.

The night before had been a bowler’d affair, helping theatre patrons listen to stories on a tablet that informed their viewing of the theatre to be seen. As for the show? If I don’t think too deeply, I like it.

Leaving the stage behind us my ears told me that in no uncertain terms should I be leaving them naked. I apologized for their pink embarrassment and continued with my journey.

What else? I must find a place to type that is not next to a sleeping person. It is obnoxious. I must also soon make some eggs.

Eggs are, after all, the promise of the springtime after winter has come.

Nothing too exciting, just a stretch of the fingers

Here we go with a new blog adventure!  Hello friends, I have missed you. What is new? Well for one, this transmission to you is being sent from the loveliest of new homes, Canada.

Yes sir, folks and lizards, I am now a permanent-style visitor of the metropolis of the north, Toronto, Ontario. Or, as the locals call it, T.O.

Or T-dot.

Or Hogtown.

I like Hogtown, but then again I’m partial to pigs.

What am I doing with all my time? This is a good question. At the moment, the internet is taking up too much of my time, and the amount of Real Work™ (PS, alt control t, remember it!) is not what it should be. Perhaps I can ask my nifty landlords if there are yard projects to do.

 I also should create an office space. This might require an air filter and a bit of organization, but the current arrangement of my digs makes me conflicted. Beds are for relaxing, not working, and yet the only chaired work station is… occupied.

At this very moment, I am writing this not to stretch my fingers and my mind, so I can delve the chewy bits of a script that is due on Monday. Wish me luck, there’s lots of gristle about!