Chicka Chicka Boom Boom

When my son was a baby, and then a toddler, I used to read to him, and one of our favorites was a book called Chicka chicka boom boom. The story had something to do with the letter A telling B and B telling C “I’ll meet you at the top of the coconut tree”. Of course each letter continues to tell the next until…….yup….

Chicka chicka boom boom! Will there be enough room?

Of course disaster follows, with letters winding up battered and bruised but all’s well that ends well.

THAT’S a fairy tale!

I’ve been reading a book called Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer, and ‘chicka chicka boom boom’ runs through my head everytime I read about ‘broilers and layers’ (betcha didn’t know there are basically only two types of chickens being ‘raised’ these days!)

The layers are obviously only female, but since these factory farms haven’t (though I’m sure they are hard at work on it) figured out how to get them to just ‘lay’ females, what to do with the male layers (since they serve no purpose) arises.

So, these male layers are simply…………..destroyed.

That’s right, half of all the layer chickens born in the United States, more than 250 million chicks a year…..are destroyed (page 48 of Eating Animals – source).

How are they destroyed, you might ask, and isn’t that a ‘harsh’ word?

You tell me.

Again, I quote:
Most male layers are destroyed by being sucked through a series of pipes onto an electrified plate. Other layer chicks are destroyed in other ways, and it’s impossible to call these animals more or less fortunate. Some are tossed into large plastic containers. The weak are trampled to the bottom, where they suffocate slowly. The strong suffocate slowly at the top. Others are sent fully conscious through macerators (picture a wood chipper filled with chicks).

Reading this book is akin to watching a train wreck.

I grew up a butcher’s daughter.
We might not have had furniture in our living room (seriously, what purpose does a living room have anyway – we had more fun using the baseboards as goals for shooting hockey cards into) but we always had meat on the table. I wonder now, if the reason my father didn’t ‘dig in’ as heartedly as the rest of us, was because he had gotten ‘up close and personal’ with his food. I never thought twice about bringing chicken hearts, eyes and other offal to school for ‘show and tell’. I never thought about it, period. I don’t think I fully realized where these formaldehyde containered parts once existed.

So now that I know – now what?

I do like my meat, a lot in fact. If I stop eating chicken, will that make a difference? Does it matter?
Is it enough to just understand ‘how’ the food that we serve to our children (and ourselves) is ‘harvested’ and ‘readied’ for our consumption?

I honestly don’t know.

I’m only ½ thru the book. What other revelations will unfold? I’ve read that pigs are as smart as dogs (as are birds) and that man is cruel.

Not all man.

There are those (the author included) that snuck into some factory farms, either to rescue a cow or chicken near death or slit their throat (in order to be ‘less’ cruel) and supply food and water (it is lawful to supply to any domestic animal that is held without food and water for more than 12 consecutive hours, though NOT lawful to remove such animal).

The animal books I devoured (for lack of a better word) growing up, were my friends. Black Beauty, Charlotte’s Web, Winnie the Pooh, The Call of the Wild, The Velveteen Rabbit, and so many more.

Chicka Chicka Boom boom indeed.

The 'Write' way to visit a deserted island

I must offer my most heartfelt apologies to anyone that was upset by what I wrote yesterday. It is never my intention to worry or upset. We all have moments (some of us, more than others) when we get physically and mentally drained, and when those times happen to coincide, they tend to be overwhelming. I've always relied on 'writing it out' to express myself, let it go, and move forward.

I haven't written poetry in years and that post just sort of flowed out of me and I felt cleansed and much better after 'writing it out'.

Running away to a 'desert island in my mind' is something I most definitely recommend, when you need to remove yourself from the stresses that are encompassing you. The price is right, the travel time quick, and you don't need a lot of clothes.

Again, I appreciate the concern that I received privately, and have chastised myself accordingly, though I can't promise I won't be visiting that island again one day. I always return refreshed and rejuvenated, and that's a good thing.

I, Me, Mine

I’m running away from it all. I'm going to a deserted island (in my mind) - you can't find me and I can't find you. I'm leaving behind my computer, my life, my identity.

I want a break.

I want to be like Greta Garbo and be alone.

I want to be alone and not feel lonely.

I want to not answer any questions, or ask any questions.

I want to miss people that I don't like.

I want to cry, laugh, shout, sing, dance, scream, and not have anyone watching.

I want to lower my expectations until they completely disappear and then welcome whatever comes my way.

I want to get it on paper and release it.

I’m going to stop wanting and start accepting.

I’m anticipating tomorrow because it is a new day with new possibilities.

I’m warmed by the support and love that reaches out and grabs me

I welcome the change, because change is always good.

I am prepared to wait, however long I need to, because some things are worth waiting for.

I will speak softer and listen louder.

I will be.

I have put it on paper and feel the release.

For the Love of Reading

I love to read, so why do I read books I don’t love?

Why do I pick books off the shelves at the library and the bookstores that I ‘should’ be reading, or have ‘heard’ I would love.

Why do I struggle and continue reading something that I don’t understand or care about?

I’m one of those people that remember a lot of books and a lot about books. Not necessarily where they took place and how it ended, but rather, who wrote it, what the cover looked like and more importantly, if it impacted me.

I started reading a book I had ‘heard’ was ‘the best’. It was so good that I couldn’t find it anywhere, (not at the library, nor in the bookstores), so of course, I ‘had’ to have it, and ordered it online. In the interim, I fidgeted and fumed, and read some ‘lighter’ reading (for me, that’s Harlan Coben, Greg Iles, anything fast paced that moves) and rested my brain, in anticipation of ‘the one’.

So the ‘one’ arrives and I was dismayed to see that the print was rather small. No worries – I indulge in reading glasses from time to time (MOST times) and was prepared. I started reading, intent on the ‘experience’ of something special.

Page 2 – I’m lost. What the f*#k is this book about? I’m starting to panic. Lots of big words and characters I don’t care about. What do I do? Is it me? Why don’t I like this? Am I not smart enough to ‘get’ it? Plus the fact that it’s garnered rave reviews everywhere as one of ‘the best’. Maybe I’m not the reader I thought I was (which means exactly what, by the way?). So what do I do? Continue of course.
My reading slows to a snail’s pace. I dread my ‘alone time’, lunch time, time to read! Dreaded book! On page 15 now and I’m skimming some parts and of course, don’t ‘get’ it and can tell there is tons of foreshadowing of ‘something’ momentous that is the pivotal and life changing moment of the story, but I don’t care enough to guess and am just miserable. I start thinking it’s time for an ‘upstairs’ or ‘car’ book.

An upstairs or car book, or whatever you want to label them, are the books you read when you really want to read. They help you avoid the dreaded slump.

Sometimes I do ‘slump’. By slumping, I mean, I panic and forget WHY I read. What I love about the ‘escape’ and how effortless a good book can be to read. I get ‘caught up’ every now and then, because I am such a ‘reader’ that people assume I have read every and all things. Mention an author to me, and I’ll fire back with, “Oh yes, he’s known for unlikeable characters, example, xxxxxx, or ‘Yes indeed, she’s quite prolific and started writing at a very young age and is still writing into her 80s”. I’ve read neither of these authors, of course.

I love to know what everyone else is reading and am constantly compiling lists of ‘must reads’ want to reads, reserving like crazy at the library, and searching ‘best of’ lists on the ‘net.

I’m constantly changing ‘my’ rules. Do I give up after the first chapter?

First page?

First sentence?

Sometimes I just don’t know what I’m in the mood for and I will happily place myself on the floor of my office and surround myself with library and ‘owned’ books and pick up the ones that appeal to me (known author, attractive cover, etc.) and read the opening sentence, back flap, appraise the text size, etc.). I try and quell the rising panic that escalates with each picked up and tossed aside book, while I frantically try and ‘remember’ why I love reading and what exactly I feel like reading. Sometimes I make mistakes and pick up something that is ‘supposed’ to be good. You know what that’s like; it’s like eating something that your mother told you is ‘good for you’. Tastes like crap. Then again, it IS good for you, so as I weigh a tome by A.S. Byatt against the latest Nick Hornby, and then let my eyes drift over (once again) to the ‘patiently waiting it’s turn’ Kristin Lavansdattar or The Far Pavillions, or upcoming book club selection, I resort back to my library picks, because they have a ‘time limit’. I break down my selections by size, due date, cover, etc., and then start reading a line, a paragraph, a page, until, miraculously, I find myself engrossed.

Oh yeah, that ‘other’ book, I’m still reading it, I’ve just temporarily forgotten that I have.