I bought a rooster.
For several months now I’ve been trying to quit, unsuccessfully.
The symptoms leave no room for doubt; deterioration of vision, wrinkles on the sides of my eyes, extreme mood swings. I'm willing to put up with the weaning interval, the twitching of the finger, the paranoia – maybe something happened?
But the main difficulty was the mornings. When your precious awakening – perhaps the most sincere moment of your day – when oblivion sprouts into being, when the soul roots itself once again within the same familiar body, and is forced to shrink from a state of infinite spiritual planes, spaceless and timeless, into confinement within the flesh and blood whose boundaries are so clear and their perishment is so certain - when all of that is disturbed ahead of time by this device, the fate of the day is more or less doomed.
You can reduce the dosing, but it’ll still be there, in the background, alerting and encircling you like a blinding field of smoke. A shower sometimes helps.
So I took the van to Grandma's kibbutz and bought a rooster. A studio apartment facing Allenby st. is most likely not the natural habitat of the winged beast. It was meant to wallow in endless lawns, to peck at grains newly fallen from the trees, to bounce upon hens.
But right now there's nothing more important than weaning, and when animal rights organizations will come knocking on my door with their angry signs, spilling…
The story continues in the full book. You can buy it, or ask for a discounted or free copy. Forgive the marketing trick.
