July 23rd, hypochondriacs tremble in slow motion, descending to the ground in corresponding tempos to collapsing buildings. The humans quiver for safe boundaries around their existence, crying out for some structure and organization until a llama trots over and knocks their beautiful, sweaty, panicky selves off-center.
Being out of bounds may not feel precise or comfortable, but it’s a way to peer through the eyes of the animals we once were at what’s really going on, and laugh about it. A parade of warty hens cast missiles while clucking and feigning laughter. Venus and Juno ask, “is this diplomacy or is it back-biting?”
The empress hen, ever vain, clucks out a song of the truth, singing that we must be smart but that this, too, can be funny.
Through the out of bounds stance and the cock-a-doodle-doo of empathy, it matters not whether we are experiencing the anguish of insulation or of ambiguity. We crawl and cluck through it. N’importe quoi!