I let all of my animals out of their hocks (shock! I had battery hens, despite my having not actually eaten chicken for three years in protest against such things.) I liked to think that inside the little chicken coop which held my sixty chickens was an enormous, comfortable place full of overstuffed couches on which happy chickens contendedly laid eggs, chattered, and did, well, chickeny things. See? Not only did I spend physical time, but mental too.
I have harvested all my crops, except the pineapples which will be ready just now and then I’ll free them too. I tilled the soil to allow whatever wants to grow there to grow and I have left my vast orchards that range from olives to gingko trees to cashews for all the freed animals to eat (cows, pigs, horses all released too, to join penguins, turtles, llamas and various other wonderful creatures I’d collected.)
I have visions of them building a little bar in the nursery barn (now that I freed all the baby animals), harvesting cashews and roasting them in the bakery oven, for bar snacks, all of them cramming in, a piano in the corner on which Bob, the Boer Goat, sometimes plays old Irish songs, when he’s had a toot too many. The chickens will then put on their suspender belts and do the can-can on top of the piano.
I know, I know, all the intellectuals got all high-horsey about us who devoted oodles of our time on such a frivolously time-wasting activity. Well, I’m an expert now, I can tell you why I found the time for it. It was a fabulous stress reliever and, even though it’s all in cyberspace, there is nothing more satisfying than planting seeds, and something grows. And, as you can see, it was a whole world into which I could become absorbed, away from Real Work and the real world.
But it’s time for me to let them all free and, in doing so, free up my time to do what I so desperately wish to get myself doing: write.
And it looks like it may be working, doesn’t it?
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