Old McDonald Had A Farm

18-04-2014 Good Friday

If you’re reading this it means Dad and I haven’t fled the country and we’re going to have to face the fact that Grandma is coming this Sunday. I hope you remember what I said about Kapparot. I’ve warned Mum about it, too. Mum called up Grandma to tell her not to bring a chicken this year, but that some chocolate eggs would be more than welcome. Grandma asked if a chocolate chicken would be fine as well. I told Mum to say that a chocolate chicken is not the same as a chicken covered in chocolate. Hopefully Grandma understands. Just in case, I’ve been practicing my swings with Cheddar’s rubber chicken.
Mum’s been making paper chickens all day (trust me, they’re not very good for swinging over your head). The entire house is covered in origami chickens and at one point Mum asked me to help her fold them. She showed me how to, but I wasn’t really good at it. Mine looked more like roosters that had been living next to a leaky nuclear power plant. This origami thing is quite difficult. Dad was really surprised when he came home and saw all those paper chickens on the kitchen table. He had probably been expecting food.
Cheddar caught one of the paper chickens. It wasn’t that difficult as paper chickens don’t really run that fast. It was torn to pieces, but Cheddar did not seem satisfied at all. I guess the dog was expecting it to be more like his rubber chicken or like real chicken. There were bits and pieces all over the place and Cheddar looked at it with a bit of a frowny face. Mum said to keep the rest of the chickens away from the dog as she didn’t want her life’s work get torn into tiny bits. The dog’s been circling the kitchen table all day.
On a more serious note, I’ve been reading a lot of Wordpress stories during my holidays and I happen to have come across a lot of stories of people asking the question ‘Who am I?’ It was also a question that I stumbled upon when I was reading the book ‘Sophie’s World’ last year. I find it an intriguing question to which I have no answer. I did find a picture on the Internet of somebody who said that his body was not really who he was, because it was the brain who was controlling it. I assumed he meant ‘we are our brains’. This in turn reminded me of the film ‘City of the Lost Children’. In this film a Brain is kept alive in a box filled with some watery substance (ethanol?). It can communicate through some sort of telephone. This still doesn’t answer the question though. I am my brain, but I still don’t know what makes me, me. Luckily me can live without this knowledge and I think this question only distracts me from living and makes living unnecessarily complicated. It reminds me of a story. I don’t really remember all the details, but here’s what I do remember. 
Once there was a forest and in this forest there lived a grasshopper who could play the violin so well that each night all the forest animals would come and listen to him play. Then one night a centipede had come to the forest and this centipede could dance like no other animal could. Instead of going to hear the grasshopper play, all the animals would go and see the centipede dance. This made the grasshopper turn green with envy and he thought of a cunning plan.
One day he walked up to the centipede and complimented him on his dancing skills. The grasshopper said he was really impressed and he was wondering whether the centipede could teach him how to dance. The centipede agreed and the grasshopper asked the centipede to explain to him how it was done. At this the centipede started thinking, and thinking,’ was it his second foot on the right first, or his first foot on the left?’ and so on, and so on. The centipede never danced again and each night all the forest animals would come and listen to the grasshopper play.
I have no idea who wrote the story or where it came from or if I’m telling it really accurately, but this is what I remembered of it. If anybody out there knows more about it, please let me know. That’s it for now, I hear mother chicken downstairs. She’s trying to tell me that it’s way past my bedtime and that little roosters should be vast asleep. See me tomorrow. 

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