In 99 Years

Her gray hair was thin,
tired of many years
of endless
combing and brushing.

The silvered strands
were expertly cut—
they could not have been
better cared for,
considering her
age.

She smiled for the lens.
Her mouth formed
a polished camera
facial expression.

She had been
on that side
of the lens
many times before—
it was apparent

as she was able to combine
a wry suspicion
with a pseudo-authentic smile,
making it all seem pleasing in the end.

There was a hard,
Eastern-European texture
to her face.

She had not chosen mud
and other beauty facial treatments,
rather had lived an adventurous
yet privileged life.

Her smile said
"I've seem much of life
in 99 years, and,
now it is yours
to enjoy and tend."

She work a black scarf
wrapped around her neck,
giving some dimension
to her very small body.

That sat onto
a poka-dotted shawl,
which was inside,
and partially covered by
another larger shawl,
laced with gold thread.

Her forearms and hands
emerged
from the third shawl.

The arms were larger
than one might expect
coming from
such a petit figure.

These (almost workman) arms,
as familiar
gardening
as editing books,
laid one upon
the other
in a warm gesture.

There was no tension,
but the weight of one arm
on the other
seemed a little more
than she could bear

causing her smile
now to tighten and
not seem
quite as relaxed
as her face
first suggested.

Her skirt exhibited
a similar
but darker dot pattern
to the smaller of the two shawls.

Her legs
appeared to be tired,
at 99,
as they struggled to
hold up her arms,

with dignity,
as a pedestal holds
tirelessly
a death mask.

Goodbye, dear aunt.

Beautiful creature

This strange creature was pecking away at something.
Is it a turkey?
It had the most magnificent pattern on its feathers.
Where else but Austin would it be wandering about on its own?

Allergic to Work

The tall lanky Italian with greasy black hair and a day's growth on his face grunted when the American couple came to his dad's restaurant. "No seats," he said in broken English that might have been the entire extend of his English vocabulary.

"But, you have no customers... look, no one's here."

"No seats, no reser va tions," he asserted sharply, fumbling over the largest word in English that he knew, and not caring for the American's logic.

He then walked into the back room to sit down and finish his glass of wine.

"Who was that?" his dad asked.

"Just a couple of Americanos... we don't need them."

"Don't need them... you want some gas money for that car of yours?"

His dad was a smaller and fatter version of the lanky Italian. In place of the black hair was a polished skull. The father's face turned red as he realized that his son was allergic to work.

The couple walked out, with the tall man remarking to the short woman, "you know, this is why I love traveling to foreign countries... you are treated like s...t."

"Perhaps this just isn't the restaurant for us," the short woman consoled. "Remember, there are two other restaurants in the town... maybe we'll have better luck with one of them."

The Italian man and his father continued to argue. The American couple could hear them as they walked away.

Battlecry of the Supermarket

Hey Buddy, you have eleven items on the check out belt. Can't you read? It says clearly... very clearly... ten items or less.

Yes, can you count? Do you see that I have a pair of chicken legs. That has got to count as one. One chicken. One. Got it. One.

No way, Buddy. An item is an item. And my meter is running. You want to pick up your stuff or you want to see what this fist feels like on your fat face.

Hey, the manager saw what I had in my cart and told me to get in this line. He obviously knows that chickens have two legs.

Just like people are supposed to have one brain? Maybe the manager needs to go back to school as well.

Oh, here he comes now.

What's up boys?

Didn't you tell me to get in this line?

Why yes, I did.

Hey, Mr. Boss, can't you count? He has eleven items. What are rules for? What are laws for? Why did I fight in your damn blasted war? Why do I carry this piece?

Men are clueless...

Some men are clueless.

He told me that I'd be so excited.

Why?

He said that he was worried, when he got an occlusal (not ocular!) guard to prevent grinding his teeth at night, he wouldn't be able to talk to me when I'm trying to fall asleep.

Oh... I'm so glad you'll be able to wake me up over and over again, like a Chinese torture, but worse.

Does your guy talk and talk at night? Where do they get that energy?

It isn't energy. It is left-over small anti-brain production. You are lucky that you don't get it all day long.

Paralysis by Analysis

The NYTimes had an article about Andrew Cuomo this am where he was accused of "paralysis by analysis." Milton Friedman said at one time that we don't make better decisions after about ten minutes of deliberation. My dad said "you can't move too slowly." A week later, when I told him that I shared that with my students and they were having trouble understanding it, he said, "I never heard anything so stupid."

So we are back to the Buddhist skepticism about "views" as something that takes us away from experiences. We used to call that "prejudice." If I think I don't like Jackson Pollock's paintings, and I happen on one that I've never seen... will I be open to it? No, of course not.

The worst thing about analysis (especially the kind that goes on and on) is that we never become comfortable with our decisions. We have thought so much about the possible negative consequences of our proposed actions that we can't ever be 100% sure it was the right path.

Someone figured out that our unconscious makes decisions about 1/10th of a second before our conscious mind is aware of that decision. Then we conjure up an argument to defend our heart.

One of the aspects I like about improv theater is that there isn't time to procrastinate. One has to respond now. Right now. Imagine if Mr. Cuomo did that.

A very strange posting.

A very strange posting. I feel like I came in on the middle of the movie.

I'm not sure there is anything else but the middle of the movie. We only walk into conversations, events, experiences. We don't do much else.

We sit on a couch, talk to a person. Both are others.

I'm not sure that there is always a big difference between ourselves and others, though couches can be more comfortable if you are looking for a place to sit down.

And they are always there for you.

Yes, and they never contradict you... or say that they are clueless about what you are getting at.

So you'd like to be hitched to a couch?

Sometimes, until I try to get it to move.