if i could fly..

if i could fly..   i would soar miles out over the ocean.. and just hover among the clouds. 
taking in the scent of saltwater.

i would race dragonflies over the surface of the delaware.

i would fly so high.. all signs of life.. tiny specks.. only the sound of the wind in my ears.. just to be alone with my thoughts.

i would buzz the nasca lines..

i would visit my dad more often..

if i could fly.. i would sell my car.

i would fly south for the winter.


if i could fly.. i wouldnt.. i am afraid of heights.

If I could fly...

I'm so tired and stressed right now.  I ache in my shoulders, I ache in my feet, my knees give out when I walk.  My stomach hurts and stabs and my heart aches and nerves snap and crackle under pressure.

If I could fly, I would walk our dog, fast around the block, me skimming the trees and her on a long leash before me.


If I could fly, I would jump off high cliffs and plummet head first to the ground only to break off at the last minute and loop de loop.

I would circle the town where my son is hanging out and drop water balloons on him if he misbehaves.

I would pack a long lunch and fly across country and back again before my husband got home.  And when he said, what have you done all day, I would say,  "Nothing"

If I could fly, I would sew myself a long gown and appear in hospital wards hovering above beds telling people to not be afraid.

I would fly up into trees all dressed in black and hide quiet in the leaves outside windows and watch.

I would clean our roof and get the Christmas lights taken down early..

 I would glide on warm air currents and pick the ripest peach on the highest part of the tree.

If I could fly, I would climb straight up till the air got thin, and the earth got small and i would sing the most glorious song.

jerry

i always said that one day i would see someone i knew on the jerry springer show.  i am not sure exactly why i always said that.  most of the people i know are of sound mind and judgement.. or so they seem.

so im in my apartment in trenton.  tv blaring in the living room.  cooking in the kitchen. 

i hear the chant.  JER RY  JER RY  JER RY.. background noise.. 

cooking and just listening.

and then i hear Jerry announce his first guest.  Anthony.

hm..

what are the chances..

nah..

i peer around the corner at the television.  and there sits my student.  grinning from ear to ear. 
i drop my spatula.. hop around the corner and slide onto my couch.. the storyline " honey, i slept with your three girlfriends"  .. or something like that.

i was appalled.. but yet i couldnt stop the deep rumble of laughter that was starting to erupt from me.

a couple days later, Anthony had his lesson with me.  i couldnt stop laughing all the way to work.  a two hour drive.  by the time i got to work my sides hurt.  i had no idea what to say to him or how i would react.  im laughing now as i tell this. 

in walks Anthony.  medium build, dark haired italian dude.. always with a smile.  i shake his hand, slap him on the shoulder, and say..

so.. does Jerry pay well?
i didnt think he could smile any bigger than when he was sitting on Jerry's stage.. i was wrong. 
he says..

yes.

btw.. i burnt my lunch that day.

How I Met My Dan. :D

There's these two buildings in Cambridge MA in the early 70's that if you told people your address, they would know about them.  It was 60 and 64 Pleasant St.  Our commune picture is taken out in front of there.

The Vegetarian Restaurant Commune lived in 64 1E and the entire basement.  Carol King before she got her record contract had allegedly lived in 60 3E with some guy. A drug house with runaway child prostitutes including a senator's daugther lived in 60 1W.   I  lived in 64 2E with three male roomates, or so in one of those shotgun setups where people had made bedrooms out of the dining room and to get to the back bedroom or living room, you had to go through my room.

For privacy, I had set my bed six foot and then some high up off the floor, a steel box spring, wired to metal milk box crates that I had commandeered from alleyways and behinds stores. and brought home to stack up almost to the ceiling.  I could climb up there and be completely alone and read or write or think.

I wasn't a big fan of clothing in those days.  So I didn't wear any at home.  I wasn't wearing any the day that a knock sounded on the door and I told whoever it was to come on in.  I was up on my bed, face down, propped up by my arms, draped in a sheet reading Thackeray's Vanity Fair.  I wasn't about to climb down to open the door.  Besides it was an open apartment.  We were cheerful and easy going.

In walks the tallest, cutest guy I had ever seen.  He's only inches away from my face as I point to the back room.  I actuallly peered over to see if he had brought a box with him to stand on.  No box, just 6' 9 " of cute as a scarecrow hippie longness.  Long hair, long lashes on his eyes. long, long legs and arms. and a big long grin on his face.

Hi, I'm Dan."

Hi, I'm Rosie,  Gary is in the back.  Through the double doors and past the beaded curtain.

He leaves, I throw on a silk wrap of some kind, comb my hair, pinch my cheeks. 

He stops on the way back out, having bought his nickel bag...

Nice meeting you Rosie.

and I say:  Tee hee hee.

We both agree that I actually said or chuckled or giggled, Tee hee hee.

That was March in the middle, we married in June.

Consequences of going dark.

 Everyone has a choice everyday, to go dark or to go light.  For my own health and energy, I guard myself against going dark.  It kills me inside. I guard against negative energy, anger, spitefulness.  I try pretty darn hard to keep positive and up beat.  Mostly I do.  The light saves me.


We both had a choice this morning to write light or to write dark.  I had picked Dogs. as a theme to keep it light, thinking of that scamp beneath my feet, Bonnie.

Then a memory that had been buried popped up and smacked me in the face. Oh no, do I ever have a dark piece.  The day my grand father shot my dog.

Such things do not belong on pretty blogs.  Such things do not belong in the front part of my head.  They don't deserve to be remembered.  They don't belong in a world of love and beauty and fairness.

But Sammy does.   I have a right to cherish what's inside my head.  I am too old to have to tip toe around and not look into all the rooms.  I can make myself sick, churn my stomach over, bring bile up into my throat,  hand over mouth, if I want to.  I can choose to remember with tears falling down my face, curled up in a ball clutching my knees. I can get it out, look at it, wring some wisdom and understanding out of it.  And cover the emotional swelling with compressed compassion.  A bushel basket of compassion. I can survive all over again.

It was a choice.  That poor dog never did anything wrong to anybody.  As Forest Gump would say,  That's all I care to say about it.

I forgive you Grandpa.    Grandma, you are still on the hook with me.

My slow dear beagle

We lived on a farm and owned two beagles.   A bright smart handsome beagle, perky and sleek and a goofy kinda ugly beagle that looked like a mix.  He was slower and friendlier to us girls and I adored him.  My grandfather didn't like him much and called him a stupid worthless thing and so we kind of had something in common. He was named Sammy after Sammy Davis Jr. because my grandfather said he kinda looked like him with that one droopy eye.

My favorite pastime was to pick ticks off of Sammy and squish them with a rock.  I liked seeing the blood splat out.  Another thing I liked to do was throw the ball over the top of our tiny tiny house and run around to the other side and try to catch it before he got it or it hit the ground.   But he was a slow thing and even I could get to the ball first.   He would kinda bound the wrong way and dodge out of the way to let me grab it

The other dog was twice as fast and if he was around would grab the ball and be off with it. Dang showoff. I left his ticks on him for someone else to pick off.  

They were hunting dogs, but my beagle got left behind a lot.  He just didn't have that beagle drive to tree a possum or grab a rabbit.   One day he brought me a new born rabbit ever so gently in his mouth. and laid it before my feet. I guess he wanted me to tend to it, it was completely unharmed.

One day five years into their lives, my grandfather found his favorite hound dead.  He found him in the right of way between our farm and the neighbors.  There was a big chunk of some partially eaten carcass and the dog was dead and bloated nearby.  He came to the conclusion that he had been poisoned by someone who had left the meat there. probably the neighbor we weren't speaking to.

Grandpa flew into a rage.  He swore.  He was beside himself with grief.  His eyes bulged out and there was spit coming from his mouth.

He goes to find my dog to see if he's all right.  He finds Sammy alive and it enrages him more.  The poor fellow is unaccountably lying in my grandmother's flower bed.  "Why couldn't it be you?!?" he screams at the bewildered dog.

Grandpa goes into the house.  Screams at Grandma. "I'ma going to kill that sonofabitch"  He gets his shotgun.  Loads it.   My grandmother doesn't say a word.  She catches up my sister and holds her to her closely with her head buried in her chest.   I fly at my Grandfather.  Don't Don't! DON'T!

I run to the window to watch.  My grandmother says  "Don't look, Rosie, You will never forget something like that."  She tries to grab me from the window,   I stay put.   Grandpa takes aim and fires. The dog jerks on the ground.  I scream.   He fires again.  This time no movement.


He comes back in and puts the shotgun away.  He is covered with rancid skunkish sweat.  The house is silent.

"You didn't have to do that."  she says to him.

musta been pretty thirsty

oli is a good dog.  i call him mclovin.. lately, scamp.  he is my trouble child.  so sweet and lovable and cuddly one minute and the devil the next.  he's a lot like me. 

his brother, bax, is the sage one.  bax the curmudgeon.. my tumorboy.  dog never leaves my side.  i used to leave collars on the two of them.  but oli has a habit of grabbing bax's collar and leading him around the house.  bax is a stubborn pug.. you can imagine how well that went over.  so goodbye collars. 

yesterday i came home to dog food all over the kitchen floor.  bax lying on his side in a nearly catatonic state of overstuffed bliss.  i tell people all the time, that dog could eat himself to death.  apparently, i was wrong.. but he tried! 

i should know better than to leave anything on the kitchen table.  but on one occasion, i left a case of water bottles.. still shrinkwrapped in plastic on the table, and went to work.  came home, fed the dogs, took them for a walk, made dinner, did dishes, sat at the table to write out the bills.. oli hops up on the table to see what im doing..

i look up to give him a swipe off the table when i notice something odd.

every last bottle of water was missing its cap. 

hm. 

what the hell? 

i look closer..  there are teeth marks. 

you gotta be kidding me!

i look closer.. there's only a small tear in the plastic.  and the caps are no where to be seen.

i look at oli.  he looks at me.

i look at bax.  i swear that dog shrugged.

to this day, i can not for the life of me figure out how he managed it. 

all 24 bottles .. decapitated.