the marked hen

this is not a story for the faint of heart

here on west wind farm there live about 25 mature hens who lay about 25 eggs every single day. in a separate coop there reside about the same number of 3-month old chicks (who are black and blue and slightly brown and haven't grown their red gobble gobbles on their heads), who will replace the others when they become too old (they're near the end of their lives).
russell, the 22 year old from seattle who came to these lands 4 months ago and has decided he will never leave, is the master of the hens. he feeds them, collects their eggs, and spends good time with the chicks, allowing them to become accustomed to the human touch.
about two weeks ago, russell began noticing queer occurences in the coop. at least one, if not as many as 3, eggs were broken each dusk as he went in to collect them. who was the culprit? the mystery continued...
until last week, russell walked into the coop and saw a hen run out of the wall of nests, with a shell and bit of yolk on her beak. she was caught red handed.

quickly she was moved out of the mature hens coop and into the pen with the younger hens where she could not eat any more eggs. but she kept getting back into her old coop, the wily one. she was then splattered in blue paint, for us to more easily identify the disrupter of order on the farm. since then she has remained with the younger ones.

and there are still more gruesome facts... it seems she is teaching the young chicks of her ways; by laying eggs and pecking at them. the young chicks have never seen eggs before and now, it is feared, all they know is to peck at them until they break.

something must be done about the marked hen. it is russell's mission (a directive from peter, master of the lands) to get rid of her. most likely by outsourcing her death to a neighbor who will find some unsavory use for her tough body.

she will be remembered by the few as a boundary-breaking, devil-may-care, rebel with an unknown cause who was murdered for her beliefs.

rest in peace, marked hen.


----
edit at 3:07pm:
russell dutifully placed the hen in a dog crate and about 10 minutes ago coleman (the neighbor) came by with his dogs in the bed of his truck, placed the hen in with them, and rode away. her body will be too tough to eat plain-- she will have to be boiled or put in a stew in order to be tasty. i told peter i hoped i wouldn't get carted away if i started drinking my menstrual blood and he said if people found out, i just might. but then again no one harvests my blood to sell at saturday markets for $4/dozen. this is so fucked up... she is being killed for eating her own eggs (she laid and ate another one today). apparently with chickens these days it's actually bred out of them to fuck. there is a rooster here who lives with 25 hens and only rarely does one of them actually guard her egg and take care of it (it's called brooding) because she knows it's fertilized.
maybe we will have a little ceremony tonight for her by the fire.

and when i come it will be on your face (book)

fellows, friends, fish,

my first post has been long in coming.

some of us are -- the point is that coming is not the point.

so here i am. long and unstructured.

i will begin with a few disasters, since that seems an appropriately low starting point from which to soar, tentacles flying and jelly shivering:

a few days ago the noble 5491 residents (five bodies with about 1818 tentacles apiece, give or take) awoke from greener pastures to realize that gabriel had been MIA for several days. our distress was manyfold, as gabriel was not well-equipped for his adventures. rolly and i mournfully inquired at open produce and steven, sleepless by mysterious mewing, referred us to his apartment complex where a lone cat mewed for nights. gabriel has now been located in a holding chamber full of cats at someone's mom's house. his re-arrival is greatly anticipated.

earlier this week i went to homewood to breathe the suburban air but my reverie was interrupted by the firecrackered burning of four cars in the vicinity of z's house. what oddities do not make it to the news! a family van, a much-loved corvette, a garaged car...haphazard destruction that did not have the trappings of heartfelt ecoterrorism. many people were sad and confused.

a few other miscellaneous small tragedies include the crippling of innocent bicycles (a streak of unluck that has plagued both rolly and i, winknight) and several small dead animals on the road. also, many bug bites.

but bug bites are the marks of more pleasing things and as i itch the clusters of angry bugkisses behind my ears, i am reminded of rolly & nautilus & my epic venture into the indiana dunes national park, a headlong tripping into a very boggy middle earth. we snuck easily into the park and refused to submit to a confusing system of marked paths until we found ourselves deep in an orc-ridden area and subject to millions of unwanted advances by amorous insects. then with unexpected significance nautilus said, and i quoth, "i wish we had a flying car" and within moments, a small cart zoomed down the path toward us. we begged and pleaded and plunked in the bed of the cart-car and accompanied the confused (and stoned?) park garbage-collectors on their adventurous route. we found ourselves at the opposite end of the park with dusk (the fateful hour of car-towing) fast approaching. hitching was mostly unsuccessful and saddening but then our cart-driving friend picked us up laughing at our absurdity (hikers who've hiked too adventurously! strange maps! middle earth is not for humans!) and the homeward trek was most satisfying.

i decided to spend this summer in chicago, hoping my grumbling disaffection for the city would flower and transform itself. i have had many adventures thusfar, most of them not of my own making--that is, i grew into the impression that i had to create projects and adventures and objects for my passion. but this summer has been explorations of new scenes (burning man, anarchist, wicker park, kinky) and tentacular beings, experiences had and wormholes into greater adventures. i have not fallen in love with chicago, but that is not for lack of potential adventures. and i am tired tired of wicker park, though the person at quimby's winks at me sometimes.

a few other brief notes that are determining (though not overdetermining) my current existence.

yesterday i created the prototype for my new, d.i.y., multi-step, gorgeous dildofriend. it has a star on it. as i stroked the clay to remove my fingerprints, i wondered what to put in the core of my wand. any ideas? what would you put in the core of your wand?

on tuesday z & justin are heading westward to shock their lives into living and in pursuit of the enigmatic spiritual answers available only (in limited quantity) in india and mexico (and peru). they will be missed.

i went to the next generation "kink munch" at ambrosia cafe in lincoln park. apparently the kink scene is a) entirely in lincoln park b) full of tentative and math-loving uchicagoans c) bougie/expensive/overpriced/capitalism-entrenched as can be. i learned about fireplay and fire floggers and fire cupping and was intrigued.

last night from the front porch i yelled a revolutionary cry seeping with passion and loneliness, love and despair, confusion and straightforward insistence:

BAO

BAOBAO

BAO?

BAO BAO BAO BAO BAO.

BAoooooooooooo!