My Prophetic Hen, RIP: A Prague Gnostic Ate Her

     In 20-20 hindsight I should have noticed them; two matching bikes, white shirt/black pants. Maybe the punk haircuts threw me off. I’ll never know. I was off-duty, on vacation.
    I’d decided to take my dearest Chicken for the weekend, to relax a bit Three nights in the Czech Capitol, stay at our favorite home-base, the Kafka Hostel on Kaprova, tour the town a bit, air out the brain.
The night before she was obviously troubled:
“Johnny, all I see is black, all black.”
I was supportive:
“Silly pigeon, of course you do. it’s night-time, duh. Your crystal egg’s asleep. Now find a nice place in the tree and I’ll call you before we leave for the airport.”
“No, Daddy, this is serious. I see myself in an avian coma, a final exclamation-cluck, then only ellipses …with nothing following…”
“Stop being silly, dear. That’s just punctuation.” I tried to comfort her.
“Punk-chew-ation, exactly.” she went on. “I see only Man’s evil appetites, their hands on the wicked throttle.”
I had some packing to do; air-holes in the carry-on bag, stuff like that. Still, reassuring my Feathered Girl was Job-one. And so far, it didn’t look easy.
“Bigger air-holes?” she offered, reading my mind.
“Only don’t cluck, duck.” I kidded her. “And no farts either. You remember when we got knocked off the connector in Larnaca?”
You try seven hours in a carrion-bag without breaking wind!” she argued, not without a basis.
But I’d started to realize the linguistic common-demon in her fears:
‘Carry-on’, it’s two words, honey.” I explained.
“Yeah, like ‘Poultry-Geist’? I see myself floating in eternal space, moving random dumb shit for the amusement of psychics…”
Poltergeist.” I corrected her. “It’s got no connection with chickens.”
“And what the hell is ‘Prone-agraphy’?” she wanted to know. I looked at my watch, (even though ‘less people wear a watch’ these days, according to Xanga’s Theo-Dan.) It was late: Late in the game or him to join the ranks of the passably-literate, and late for me, if I wanted to sleep before the flight. I decided to humour the fowl a bit:
“‘Prone-agraphy‘ is the study of methods of lying flat on the ground, my little bird.”
“So why do I see ‘masturcation’ or is it ‘mastibation’ in my Fortune-telling Egg?”
“Don’t worry about it, dear. It’s a ‘tooth’ thing‘, and you ain’t got any.”
“Neither do you, Daddy. OK, I guess I’m just nervous, is all…”
“It’ll be fine, bird. We’ll have great fun. And stop with them ellipses. They’re like, you know, ‘ominous’. Just close your little eyes and bingo, no omens.”


The flight itself went without a hitch. even the nitrate-sniffer at check-in.
“Looking good, baby.” I spoke into my hand-bag, arousing the suspicion of ‘Orli’, (by her name-tag at Ben Gurion.)
“Le’me’ata me’da’ber?” (‘who you talking to?’) she asked, suddenly.
“I talk to my-self. American. We do that.” I told her, in easy English. Works every time.


     So it was the second night when things went tragically wrong. We were gawking at the giant sculpture of the Man on a Horse. I was distracted bargaining with a street-vendor in pidgin-yiddish for a ‘Czech Spring™’ plastic slinky. Thought the birds might enjoy playing with it in off-hours in their coup.
Ill-fated Hen clucked in my ear:
“I’ll be right back. This nice religious guy wants to give me a ride on his bicycle.”
“Wait-a-minit. What do they believe in?” I remember asking her.
“Universal Love, whateveah…” she said, breathless.
“You’ve lost your marbles, child?” I at least managed to ask.
“Mebbe. But I feel marble-less, wonderful, Daddy. Please? Five minutes…”
 I decided that being a responsible parent might not include micro-managing my child’s theology and deferred to her best judgment…
    The Police found only entrails. Fore-telling only the Past. I shall never forgive myself. F*cking Gnostics; who could have known? I returned to Tel Aviv, to my surviving hens, a broken man.
And vowing to take their ‘prognosticator’ clucks dead-seriously in the Future. RIP.


Wu: Didn’t really happen, right?
Me: Aww, Wuzie, Why you always gotta bring up details like that?
Wu: Reassures the innocent believers.
Me: All right then. You have a point. But I’m still on the trail of a gnostic with chicken-breath. And his hand in his pants.

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24 thoughts on “My Prophetic Hen, RIP: A Prague Gnostic Ate Her

  1. seedsower

    @jsolberg – What’s the scary part,are they implants? I was thinking a plate that you would take out.I hope and pray all goes well.I fell asleep early and woke up to pee and have been awake for a bit, think I will put a movie in and go back to sleep for a bit. You did not get the seeds yet ,did ya? Much love to you.

    Reply
  2. Roadkill_Spatula

    This kind of thing could put you in a fowl mood. I arrived at the seminar chickenless this time, but it appears to be the general condition of attendees. Less people sport poultry these days.

    Reply
  3. jsolberg

    @epiginoskete – What a blessing to hear that, friend:) I work frenetically, at night, on mine, without even considering them the oft-derogated P-word. More like basic structural linguistics, like I’m discovering the primeval ‘first-use’ of, for example, “prognosticator”, from back in The Epiginoskete Era.Again, many thanks. This may be my year:)

    Reply
  4. jsolberg

    @Roadkill_Spatula – Oy, it’s ‘less people sport *A* chicken.’ It’s alled avian time-sharing.I still haven’t read comments on that infamous post, to see if any other upstart gently corrected Our Leader’s grammar. I’ll try to get over it… by the end of the year, if not later.

    Reply
  5. jsolberg

    @chromepoet – And ‘the sun’s not yellow, it’s the chickens’, from the same albumen(sp?) I *have* seen turkey-buzzards spending altogether more time than necessary with the guts of their carry-on. Probably to judge what the Future entails. “Seven lean years in a lean-to with a lien on it” one told me. I asked for a second opinion. “Ok, eight years, same price, happy?”

    Reply
  6. murisopsis

    Hehe. I had to read it a couple times – kind of like Alice in Wonderland – to parce out all the nuances of language and prevarication… Especially like the bit about the “tooth thing” hehehe! Hope you are toothsome soon.

    Reply
  7. jsolberg

    @murisopsis – Proud to announce that I now have more teeth than a chicken, as of an hour ago. And eating my fav liver in pita first time in 6 weeks, after over a month of mashed potatoes. i guess I wrote this from my own fore-bodings of crib-death in the dentist-chair. I survived. And all my fowl are, in actuality, happily asleep. Now to Google what Gnostics believe, ha.

    Reply
  8. jsolberg

    @Roadkill_Spatula – Hardly gold, they’re some kind of temporary ‘corian’?, by the smell of the glue they used to ‘fine-tune’ them. Tim, we coulda made teeth this good with a 4″ disc-grinder, but the real ones are supposed to be better, in three months. I’m paying $6500 for the whole process, 10 titanium implants, 14 teeth. Wonder if you have a price for anyone in the States for comparison.I do sorta look normal again though, if that’s a good thing, ha.

    Reply
  9. jsolberg

    @we_deny_everything – Thank you, J. I call it ‘a good thing’, but our trade has been somewhat given a bad name. I consider it a serious linguistis branch, as I related a bit above.My problem with the Gnostics is their Phil or Sophie’s Choice of Menu items: my little feathered friend.

    Reply
  10. jsolberg

    @twoberry – Yes, whatever one may call my niche, this is pretty much what she wrote. I truthfully have just awful dreams at the Kafka. Every time. It’s a real trial sleeping there. But all I can afford, even when the State’s paying.

    Reply
  11. gnostic1

    “czech spring, in the coup, carrion bag, common demon” !!! etc etc. It isn’t just thinking them up, as you know, it’s slipping them into a very worthwhile context that takes the genius.(My inquiries lead me to suspect that a pro gnostick tater frying pan was involved. The “Bulgarian Kernel” pays his agents a large down payment to pluck victims from the streets. The girls can either raise goose-bumps in clubs or go straight into the pan. Kind of a Sophia’s choice … or Sophia’s Grade B if their thighs are substandard.) In the last paragraph “club” refers to the sandwich. I’m just sayin’.

    Reply
  12. jsolberg

    @gnostic1 – I couldna do it alone, mate. This post is about as close as I’ve gotten to your own over-the-top-and-spin-the-bottle style. As a pillar of fire in the distance. Your comment here alone spurs me to keep pushing on. If it’s any help, I did read both ‘choice’ and ‘club’ as simultaneous duals. Almost used to it by now.So glad you stopped by.

    Reply
  13. gnostic1

    @jsolberg – I thought you would get the “club” bit but fretted that some of your readers, high above the xangan plain though they are, might not.Glossaries and Guide Books, as we’ve said before, should be available under each seat.

    Reply

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