and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

Here I have come upon a week of work that will rival most all weeks of work - with deadlines and pressure and the sort of workload that makes a mule roll it's eyes in terror - and all I want to do is write to you.

I want to tell you stories and wax philosophical about the decline of the American way of life. I want to go outside, out into the beautiful world, and sit on park benches with you - all of you - and watch ants carry away our chips. I want to hide in the bushes and throw rocks at old people.

Is it bad to find humour in the thought of throwing rocks at old people? They wouldn't mind, you know.. at least not the old people I'd throw rocks at. They'd have a sense of humour too and they'd chuckle and shake their cane at me in mock-anger.

"Kids these days.." they'd say, turning to their walking companion. But they wouldn't mean it in the way that parents mean it.. they'd mean it in the way that old people mean it - knowing that all kids are hellish by nature but in a good way..

Someday, when I'm old, I'm going to have rocks thrown at me by little kids. Or maybe rotten apples. They'll laugh and chuckle with the reckless abandon of youth and not have a clue - not even the slightest thought - of the hurt they could be raining down upon me (and I don't mean physical hurt). But that's what is so great about kids.. pure and from the heart they lead by and from example doing what they will with no worries no question no care.

If your major life decisions were deciding whether to have peanut butter and jelly or bologna for lunch then you would be pretty care free yourself.

And I wouldn't mind if you threw rocks at me... little rocks. Let's call them pebbles. I'd hobble behind the bushes and kneel down on my bony knees, cringing at the burn of arthritis but not caring. I'd fumble around for something - anything - and I'd throw it back at you. Lobbing it, like you did, so as not to hurt but just annoy. I'd play the crabby old man part. I'd be the scary old man you run from, screaming in mock terror but truly more in delight to be chased by something you can actually get away from for once. I'd waltz with you in our dance of life - our game of growing up - the two of us. The one so young as to not know any better - the other so old as to not want to know any better. Neither in the middle - neither grown up.

I want to believe that old people - certain old people - find a peace later in life that is akin to the serenity of youth. I want to believe that the worries and anxiety and responsibility of life that starts to weigh us down sometime in our late teens and then gets heavier and heavier as time goes on - I want to believe that it gets lighter and lighter eventually. I want to believe that, like a mule grunting under the heavy load of life, we will be able to sigh a sigh of relief when we reach our eventual destination - that the load will slowly be removed from our backs and we will be left to pasture - to enjoy the green grass and the sunny day and the mildly chilly evenings perfect for napping under the crab apple tree.

Until then, though, here I am - your beast of burden.