Plan B

Two months of labor,
Original goals not met.
Cutting my trip short.

Ausies have arrived.
Together, we will sight-see.
Ten days for new goals.

Roma for two days,
Firenze and Siena,
Beah beach beach beach beach...

Feeling Stuck

I keep thinking about why I came here. I came here to learn about chickens, chicken breeding, chicken raising, and all things important in the keeping of chickens. I came here - Italy - to do this because of my familial ties, because I am young and able to flit about the world, because I've never ventured out alone like this before.

Well I haven't learned anything. Okay, I've learned how to efficiently fill a tractor with cow shit and straw. I've learned a few Italian words and phrases. I've learned that this farm is too big for its farmer and this partial-free-range, paradise facade does not excuse the tight and dirty quarters of some animals, the birds' corn-infested diet, or the number of dead animals that get carried to the dumpster every week.

And I've learned that it takes money to venture out like this. I'm not within walking distance of anything, the buses are infrequent, and trains and hostles add up pretty quickly. So much for a cultural experience. The "culture" of one small family is not exactly enough for me to feel connected to my Italian herritage or to the vast and significant history of the nation, or even of Tuscany.

So I suppose I've also learned that I don't have patience for monotony that does not serve anyone. If I had money, I'd forget the educational experience in favor of branching out and seeing this country. But funds are limited. If I thought the animals were better off with my help here, if I stood strong behind this farm's project, if I was learning anything useful about raising birds - even if I could find it in a book at the library - I would have some inkling of duty, of dedication in spite of its Sysiphian form. But I don't feel it.

Bad luck? Bad planning? I must learn this next.

Did Poe Do Chores?

The bells! — ah, the bells!

The little plastic bells!

Hold water for the chickens in their pens

In their pens. —

In their merry little pens—

In the cozy, earthen pens

There are bells, bells, bells —

There are bells!

The bells! — ah, the bells!

The green with algea bells!

How horrible a chore it is to scrub

Yes to scrub—
Yes to rinse and scrub—

With a toilet brush I scrub!

And with dish-pan-hands I rub

All the bells, bells, bells —

All the bells!