A Tidings of Magpies

Your Family’s Farm, Empty by Nick Lantz "Buildings can't want."—Donald Rumsfeld Neither does the ax regret each tree it has bitten, though it leans against the shed like a drunk locked out of his own house. The tractor doesn't moon over the physique of its youth. The dry birdbath makes no plans for the future. What can the barn recall of the day you climbed the ladder into its loft and found a pair of buzzard chicks skulking among the hay bales? Your grandfather shot them with a pistol and kicked them out of the haymow for you to carry to the ditch beyond the field. Does the barn remember those shots exploding inside it like a burst neuron? The weight of those bodies thudding to earth? Can the field remember your feet crossing it, the air heavy with crickets? Does the ditch remember the bones the coyotes gnawed and scattered? You stand here, where the walnut tree was felled, one foot on the smooth disc of...

It's spring recital time at the CinCity Dance Academy as it is in many other cities throughout the country and HoneyHaired has been wished by many to "break a leg." Recitals, graduations, weddings, baby showers...We in the Distracted household are doing our best to keep the economy stimulated with purchases of flowers, photos, DVD's and meals on wheels. Anyway...one performance last night. Two today. Then the hair freezing glue can go back into the closet to be lost for another year until the challenge of the ballet bun arises anew.

This business of getting older and doing so with some grace is a tricky little duck. No sense going on about the looks and body department. That infrastructure is crumbling as I write and girders must be hoisted. However, dancing...that has been a bit of a bittersweet surprise. The Hubby and I met while dancing along the steamy waterbanks of this beautiful river city when the humidity was high and the moon was full and we were seventeen years younger. Doesn't seem like so many and it really has flown by, but our muscle memory must have a short memory and our fast twitch muscles have quite forgotten how to twitch. We went to the swing dance on Madison Avenue Thursday night and met the new generation; the ones we compete against for floor space. What's a woman of a certain age to do? The white ankle top socks are simply not a good look for me.

I had a dream again last night about jeteing. I've never been asked that in a personality test in any of the multiple magazines passed my way. Do you dream of flying? Falling? Phantoms? Ferocious beasts? But never, Do you dream of dancing? The feel of a few running steps and leaping out into open space, right leg lifted and pointed straight out in front, left leg extended straight behind and arms lifting up towards the heavens for a span of forever. And, in my dream, a slow, drifting descent back down to earth. Something I could never accomplish in my daily life despite years of lessons and the feel of many different ballet barres and resined wooden floors. But in sleep I become airborne after a few attempts, and in the morning rise up from my bed arms, shoulders, and legs sore from my flight.