Strangely, I own nothing in this picture, except the dog whose paw is featured, slightly, in the upper left corner - and even that is a bit of a stretch. Do I "own" the dog? I don't like to think that I do. If anything, the dog really does own me. His pleading looks to be let out of the 5th floor highrise where we live, too high up even for the bees to visit so my tomato plants, featured below, flower and bloom but are unable to germinate since there is no bee for flower sex. The balcony is total, complete, without bars for him to look through; thick white concrete parameter with the flagstone floor and two tomato plants whose leaves I can't even eat - in the family of nightshade, I'd probably die. Belladonna big eyes, maybe I could give that a try. But there are other ways to get the highly sought-after dilated look, some of which I prefer over poisoning.
But the turtle here, my little turtle friend, at least he, goddamn it, owns his shell. You own your body, don't you? Isn't that the primary source of ownership that nothing, save for pimps or sex/drug/human trafficking, can take away? Or organ donation? Or death? I own these hands that type these words, or at least I certainly pay for their upkeep - soap to prevent the swine flu, necessary lotions, balms and creams. I pay for the food that I put into these lovable little mitts that I then transfer, and transform, in my mouth. I even pay for mittens for my kute little kittens. Goddamn, these hands - like a turtle shell: mine.
So what does this make me? Google: Do I own my hands?
I didn't find much, but I did find THIS!
And maybe that's enough for today. Let's break for wine and cookies.
