Archive for January, 2011|Monthly archive page
So Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road? And how far did the chicken move, on the other side of the road?
So what came first, Dr. Seuss? The chicken? Or the egg? A woman had to know. Because in the creation process, she alone had the eggs.
“I do not like eggs in the file.
I do not like them in any style.
I will not take them fried or boiled.
I will not take them poached or broiled.
I will not take them soft or scrambled,
Despite an argument well-rambled.
No fan I am of the egg at hand.
Destroy that egg! Today! Today!
Today I say!
So what came first, Dr. Seuss? I was still working on my dissertation about the rationale for the chicken to cross the road. Concentrating more about the rationale of why a chicken ever crossed the road in the first place. From there I would get to a conclusion about the egg.
In the history of chickens, wasn’t this just the same old story? About what was now called free range chickens. Only now all of the over-educated people were putting a new spin on chickens in the competitive world of globalization? Figuring out all the rules and legalities, after being taught or learning just what personal limitations were. The ones that could be caused by egg production. When people, strangers, wanted your eggs. For breakfast. And there was so little concern about the individual chicken. And where the chicken was headed. If the journey would be safe.
“Where am I going? What am I gonna do?”
“You don’t know either? No one ever knows at your age.”
The old nomadic ideal of the free-range chicken. Freedom inside and outside the tribe when the sky was falling. And so much like an isolated people on the other side of the road. Away from the tribe.
“Why did the chicken cross the road?” Had it all just been one large Grade A mistake? That ended up in the creation of all this corporate farming?
Who really cared why the chicken crossed the road, any more? Being cognizant of a viewpoint of the road in the story. As to who really cared about the chicken and the road? Well, when lifetime decisions, in years when the census was being taken, affected public policy, there was the Environmental Protection Agency. Then the interior department. And the department of defense, if not Homeland Security. And if not quite health and HUMAN services, maybe the justice department. And of course there were all the insurance questions. If you would have coverage, especially after leaving the corporate farm, over the age of 23.
Notice the quiet presence of that damn road in the story. The one that young chicks took so much for granted. And the concern now about the inner structure, with all these budget cuts. Whether in this economy if the road would be rebuilt with tax dollars, should it be washed out. And what would happen to the chicken if the road would be washed out? Caught on the wrong side of the road, when borders changed. And all the worries about the eggs tomorrow, if the road was washed out. If the chicken could ever go back to the other side. If those wings could really work. And then if the chickens on the wrong side of the road would be considered undocumented, if not just illegal.
No fan I am of the egg at hand. To say nothing of those tomatoes. The ones which seemed to be manufactured, not created. So why had all those chickens ever crossed the road, in the past? Were these crossings affecting taste? Or the lack thereof. Who really cared? Did Publix or Winn Dixie, Safeway or Alberrtsons? Not Hyvee. Not Cub Foods or Rainbow. And not even Whole Foods. And was there even a Hinky Dinky store left.
Just like a woman had to decide. In this age of corporate farming, man, there were a lot of chicks. And eggs. And roosters in the world. Who could care about just one? It was, in this world, all about the reasons why the chicken crossed the road. And the eggs.
When as a way of life, farming had once become a culture. Not just a job, but part of every moment of your life. Like some kind of religion, from sun up to sundown. About the living arrangements, day to day. In a world where so many, chickens any way, were having a hard time with those living arrangements.
Free range chickens. As organic farming was making a comeback, after a generation of corporate farms. Having to decide. Hatching a plan. In such a fragile world of eggs. Decisions. Trying to decide. Not so much how all these chicks got here, but being cognizant of the repercussion –all those repercussions–once the chickens were here. About the future. And the affect of one chicken on the world. In a world concerned about YOUR eggs, and not the chicken.
In a world concerned if there would be eggs in the morning? All the demands for eggs. Was this the irony when farmers’ kids left the farm and then one day came back. So many farmers’ kids or grandkids who had become involved in cramming, chickens into cages, with an over-crowding like in the city. With the self-created punishment. The repercussions which came from putting all your eggs in one basket.
Why exactly did a chicken cross the road? Or an ocean? In this age of diversity, with so much conformity, what exactly was the attraction? And if she should elect to cross the road, would it all be worth worth the risk? The movement in the story, in an election year, when people were always led so much by their fears.
Deciding whether to cross the road. Like a chicken had to, a woman had to decide. Early. Because chickens laid their eggs early. And someone had to gather the eggs and make a decision what to do next — the decision with all those repercussions affecting every sleeping and waking moment. Those decisions about crossings, whether one day there would be some kind of epiphany. How would your chicken crossing affect the world? After having to then put all of your eggs in one basket.
Decisions, after once picking out the location, deciding when to cross. And after the personal decision as to where and when, how to live with a passion. And should you cross the road alone? Someone had to decide. Would it be good for the eggs, to cross the road?
To carry the future forward alone, or with others. And where the chicken was next headed. If the journey would be safe.
So who had time to wonder, to really care any more, why had the chicken cross the road? Was it all just about belief? So the reason why the chicken crossed the road was based on belief? Or a hope for a better future? With greater opportunity? When so many young chickens wanted to hold on to their independence. Or just travel and explore, discovering the answer in other cultures. Until you weren’t just sure what you believed about the entire process. In this age of diversity, with so much conformity, all the chickens back home all cooped up….by those living arrangements. So to take a chance on being a free-range chicken. Like the world should end up with less stress, for the chickens? with all this diversity, like it was something brand new?
The migrant. The exile. The refugee. Why had the chicken cross the road?
As an instrument becomes an extension of me, like the Land one day would. Did you note all of the misnomers that hide the ‘refugee’ in flight, including an emigrant who thinks that she/he needs to be invisible in order to survive here.
Leaving…..wanting to go back. Will I be welcome? There. These 800,000 refugees who were welcome into Germany would be the cream of the cop, with the resources and courage to leave. The educated one, for now, had crossed the road.
To a place to be determined. To a place you do not know. On the “wrong” side, where people think that you were an invisible threat. Like Cain, the first born son, born outside the Garden. So why did the chicken cross the road?
Leaving…..with the Fear of the Lord. Not knowing. And now exposed to this new invisible Fear of the outsiders. Who were these outsiders? Will I be welcome, by the outsiders? Will I expose my own so personal fear of the invisible Lord, in some how carrying a Presence.
So did it come down to one story, one personal story about a chicken –a grade A chicken–to know the answer? To discover the answer about what came first? The past or the future? The chicken? Or the egg.