Walking Path Algorithm

When greeting a passing stranger on a walking path in small town Wisconsin, it is important to be friendly without being overly aggressive. Eye contact must be made, but only briefly. Premature eye contact leads to discomfort for both parties since prolonged eye contact with a passing stranger on a walking path is not acceptable. Nor is passing without offering a greeting after eye contact has already been made. Premature greetings (before or after eye contact) creates an extended interval of extreme awkwardness. On days of unusually nice or poor weather, there is always the possibility of using a comment about the weather as filler, though if one prefers to go this route, it is best to not offer a greeting first, but rather to use the observation of the weather in place of the greeting.  Example: "Nice day, huh?" is perfectly acceptable and friendly if the proper amount of time is given for the stranger to respond to the comment.  If one decides to reply to the stranger's reply, the reply should be a statement that the stranger will feel no obligation to answer.  Example: "Have a good one."

In order to avoid premature eye contact when approaching an oncoming stranger, find some natural object far off to one's right to feign interest in.  Following a sloping trajectory, from high right, to middle left, return eyes to the path when the oncoming stranger is about 5 to 7 paces away. Depending on the stranger's demeanor, choose one of the following options:

- A stranger who appears to be friendly:  Smile as eye contact is made and say "Hi" in a medium toned voice.  Never wave.

- A friendly looking stranger who appears to be absorbed:  Be prepared to deliver a closed lipped smile with a singular nod if incidental eye contact is made.

- A stranger who is familiar, a walking path regular: A wave with a nod is acceptable.

- A stranger with a dog is best greeted via the dog with a high pitched, "Hey poochie poochie." If the stranger stops for you to admire the dog and the dog seems friendly, stopping, putting out a hand and complimenting the dog is an advisable option and replaces a more generic greeting.  A conversation focused on the breed of the dog may evolve, but any body movement by the owner in the direction of her original trajectory is a sign to move on.

- A stranger who appears to be unfriendly (frowning, bloodied, armed) is best passed with neither eye contact nor greeting.

Note:  This formula is generic in nature and must be altered in aberrant circumstances such as when passing very old strangers, when the passing strangers are a middle aged man and a teen aged girl, when very small children are present.  If passing a minority stranger, make sure to adhere strictly to the generic code, being sure not to be overly friendly, nor detectably aloof.

Further note:  Not offering a greeting may be better than offering a late one which puts the passing stranger in the awkward situation of having to decide whether to answer the greeting after passing or to ignore it.  There is some debate over which is the proper response to a late greeting.  If put in this situation, mumbling a response is a safe middle ground that can be interpreted as either a response or simply as ambient noise depending on which interpretation is less disconcerting.

Most importantly, the entire interaction must come off looking causal and not at all calculated.

Amazing!

On the radio I heard about a man who recently died.  He had spent his last 25 years traveling around California, filming everything he saw.  From mountains to soda machines, he declared everything to be "Amazing!" One famous viewer reported that upon first glance he thought this man to be idiot for thinking everything was amazing, until he realized he was a genius.

Huell Burnley Howser - October 18, 1945 - January 7, 2012

Hearsay

That say that each snowflake is unique, that space is infinite.

They say that what appears to be solid is mostly hollow.

They say that our attention is becoming too fractured,

And our ability to concentrate is being undermined by the internet.

They say that eating dark chocolate is good for you.

They say that novel length dreams can occur during just a few seconds of sleep.  

They say cut all the unnecessary words from your writing.

They say that glass is made out of sand. 

They say that stories must have a beginning, a middle, an end.

They say there's no such thing as the boogie man.

They say never give up, no matter how many times you fail.

They say the safest drivers are 40 year old mothers in minivans.

They say that non-fiction means it's true.

They say that smoking is bad for you.

They say that reading makes you smarter.

They say that traveling makes you open-minded.

They say that you can learn to be happier.

And that meditation can cure all sorts of maladies.

They say that middle children are rebellious.

They say follow your dreams, find work you are passionate about.

They say love is the answer.

They say that during war, grown men call out for their mamas.

They say there is someone for everyone.

They say we each have something to offer.

How Do You Do Van Morrison?

In astral weeks

Don't think a thing

Larger than this who

And then, resist,

Rising toward

The ringing ways

Of now.

In astral days 

Shine the sweet

Volcanic noise of

Nebulous springs

Playing the strikingly

Stormy collidings

Of morning.

In astral hours 

How can I arrive 

At the powerful strides

Of tunes lovingly

Daring and raw

Riding an abundance

Of sky.

In astral nights

Who can bare words

Done here no harm

Amid quiet disturbances

Of percolating highs 

Merging with the flurries

Of fear.

While My Husband Watches Football

Bigsley and Bernadette: Regrets

Quandary # ?

Whenever I read a great story someone else has written,
no matter how absurd or mundane, the story seems so obvious, there on the page, that I think I could have written it.


But then when I sit down at my desk, suddenly nothing is obvious, and the only absurd thing is that I can't think of one mundane thing to write.

Day of the Kings

Who said being King would be easy?

Even on his birthday.

The Rotten Deal

A writer writes something one day and thinks it's pretty darn grand, this thing she has written.  She wrote it, most likely, in an ecstatic state, inspired by some little thing that passed her way.  This little thing ignited a little fire that burned very brightly and voila! She turned this little thing into a rather grand work of art. She believes, unconsciously, that this little thing she has written is an extension of her own self, like slicing a piece of her soul and putting it on a plate for others to taste.*

Perhaps this thing she wrote is an assignment, and she is very excited to hear what the teacher thinks of her work because, of course, she is expecting the teacher to adore it as much as she does, though she tells herself that this is not the case, that she wants the teacher to be honest, not because she wants the teacher to say it's mediocre, but because she wants the teacher's praise to be honest.

She goes about the day feeling very good about herself, smiling and being kind and generous to all, knowing that she wrote this marvelous little piece of insight that is right now penetrating the mind of another person, not just any person, but a person who will be awed by her eloquence and intelligence and talk about her to other people, perhaps people who are influential, people who will soon be contacting her and begging her for more.

Finally the day comes for the teacher to hand back the assignments. The teacher expresses some dismay over the low quality of the assignments, but the writer of the grand little piece knows the teacher is not talking about her, but her fellow classmates, some of whom, she knows, are incapable of writing a wonderful anything. Still, her heart is beating so frantically that her hands are shaking when the teacher returns her assignment. She flips through the pages searching for the praise she knows she deserves, but finds only marks noting wrong word choices, awkward sentence constructions, and confusing plot twists. She is unimpressed by the few notes of nice, good, and interesting, because they are so small and understated as to be rude. She feels as if she has been stabbed. A great tide of anger swells up, making her realize that her teacher is foolish, mean, and arrogant. How dare she suggest ways that the grand little piece can be improved. Obviously, the teacher doesn't get her style of writing. She leaves the class on the verge of tears and immediately searches out friends to show the foolish remarks her teacher made about her grand little piece. Though her friends agree with her, that her writing is marvelous, they don't show enough disdain for the teacher to make her feel much better.

Later, the anger turns into a heavy and immense sadness.



*She has read that in certain cultures, artists are looked upon as simply vehicles for the magical work of mysterious muses so that an artist, who happens to make a wonderful piece of art, is simply a lucky recipient of the muses' inspiration. This way of looking at things takes a lot of pressure off an artist when his work happens to be not so great, the muses having skipped him that day or week or month, using another artist instead.  But her culture sees this as complete nonsense.

New Year's Day Reality Check

Perceived Breakdown of Mental Activity

Actual Breakdown of Mental Activity

Bigsley and Bernadette: Road Side Attraction

Be reasonable, would you? I mean, what's the rush? Do you realize that birds all over the world would give their right wings to be able to tour House on the Rock? And who knows, maybe there's some rooms available. Well, it probably isn't your style Herman, so I'd advise you continue on, but Bernie, trust me. You are going to forever regret if you don't stop and check this out.

Power of Suggestion

I recently learned 

that my mother thinks it's distasteful, 

all these people always photographing their lunch.  

I don't know why she thinks this.  

Maybe it goes back 

to some ancient Jewish code of conduct.  

Maybe she heard someone she admires

 saying the same thing.  

Maybe she has no good reason to feel this way, 

but just does.

I had never given it any thought 

until my mom mentioned it.  

Now, whenever I find myself photographing my food, 

I feel a little ashamed of myself.

A Terminal Case of Cartoons: Memorable Gifts from Christmas Past

Three Happy People

Annie Dillard, 

at the onset of Pilgram at Tinker Creek, 

imagines 

"three happy people."

"One collects stones.  

Another -- an Englishman say -- watches clouds.  

The third lives on a coast 

and collects drops of seawater 

which he examines microscopically 

and mounts."  

Not Coming Soon to a Music Store Near You

linoleum print by tad

Bigsley and Bernadette: Twist My Wing

Okay, quit your begging already!  I'll migrate, if that's what you want.  But I like to make good time. No stopping for historic markers, cave tours, or corn palaces.  If I'm going, we're gonna do this right. And Herman, no podcasting.  This is supposed to be a vacation!

The Wheel of Righteous Indignation

A) Any exasperated assertion of a loved one's weakness:  "Why doesn't he ever turn off the lights?!"

B) Justification of assertion with damning evidence:  "He's 'Mr. Sustainability' and he leaves lights on in every room in the house!"

C) Smug assertion of superior moral position. "But I will turn them off and then let it go."

D) Justification of moral superiority with a superior act. "I will accept him for who he is."

E) Inevitable conclusion. "I am better than he is."

Yiddish Lesson #6: Kvetch

"Does she have to keep it so hot in here? I should have worn my bikini. Can you believe the fuss she makes every year? I don't know why she does it. Imagine the expense! Just like a goy. And a wreath?! She's loosing her mind. For New Year's, she's going to some nudist hot springs in California. Believe me, I know. It can only end badly. Have you ever tasted latkes so greasy? And my God, this wine!  It tastes like a sponge. She's my only living relative, that's why. She feels obligated to invite me. Every year it's the same thing. 'Could you pick up some low fat sour cream? Remember, buy the all natural apple sauce. Don't forget the folding chairs like you did last year!' What a kvetch!  I've known some kvetches in my life, but she tops the list. Nothing is ever good enough for her. You bring over crackers and the first thing she does is read the ingredients. She claims certain oils are bad for her. Well, I've been eating those oils all my life and look at me! Healthiest one in the building. I don't go to the doctor more than once a year, thank God! But not her, she runs to him for every little ache and pain. 'My doctor says I shouldn't eat this, my doctor says I should only eat that!' It's enough to make you have to go to the doctor yourself. And the doctors these days, I'll tell you. It's all about money. Not like when we were young and the doctor was a member of the community. A solid citizen. I don't envy the young kids these days, absolutely not. The way the world is going, I'll be glad when my time comes. Unlike some people I know who think they can live forever. As if plastic surgery and crystals and flax seed can bring ever lasting life. And don't think you are going to get any dessert around here. God forbid some refined sugar should cross her lips!"

Thoughts about People #1,776,943

Some 

people

like

to 

stay

in

the 

house

all 

day

on 

a 

rainy

December

Saturday.

And

some

people

do

not.

Bigsley and Bernadette: Cult of Herman

"Acapulco?!" choked Bigsley.  "Why not be honest with yourself for once?  You migrate because of peer pressure.  With the advent of modern conveniences, why would any logical bird do it?  It's old school, Baby.  Just surrender to the moment and admit you would rather stay here snuggled up with me and my satellite dish."

Bernadette explained that there are lots of reasons to migrate, the exercise, the change of scenery, the opportunity to mingle with birds of other species.

"And let me guess," interrupted Bigsley.  "It's spiritually enlightening."

"As a matter of fact, it is."

"Well, how about that folks?  She's been brainwashed!"

12/12/12 @ 12:12:12

Twelve ideas,

Twelve reasons,

Twelve seas by the seasons.

Twelve times,

Twelve finds,

Twelve special friends of mine.

Confession

There are never any pens in the junk drawer because every time I leave the house, I grab one.  Or two. Or three.  Last week I cleaned out my purse and found fourteen pens.  This is not unusual.  I buy pens in packs, like wolves.  It feels ridiculous to buy so many.  And yet, I often find myself searching for a pen.  Obviously, I am not the only pen hoarder in the house.  I have my suspicions.  Others suspect me. Just last week, two members of my family confronted me about the pen situation.  I blinked at them, hoping they would go away.  I don't like to share pens because not just any pen will do.  Cheap ballpoints suffice for grocery lists or reminders to walk the friend's dog.  Those I generously share.  But Uniballs, Zigs, or APs I do not lend out, even if they were lent to me.

And Now A Few Words from Our Sponser

Stories Shared at the Holiday Office Party

A man attending a very fancy affair popped a cherry tomato into his mouth, only to realize, too late, that  it was far too large for his mouth.  Not knowing what else to do, he bit down.  The innards of the tomato squirted out of his mouth and across the table, sewing a line of seeds all the way up an older woman's elegant white dress and onto her naked neck.  This was years ago.  When his colleague inquired whether he had paid for the dry cleaning bill, he paused.  "I never considered dry cleaning," he admitted.  He did though say he was sorry.




**********

A very shy woman was invited out to dinner after work with some colleagues and their boss and their boss's boss.  This was back in the day when people wore suits and ties to work.  And because it was Wisconsin, the dinner was a bratwurst fry.  The very shy woman was seated across from her boss and boss's boss, not the place she wanted to be seated, especially when presented with the prospect of having to put her mouth around a very large brat (as brats in Wisconsin tend to be).  But not knowing what else to do, she picked it up with both hands, put it to her mouth and bit down.  Hot brat grease squirted out the back end of the brat, splattering her boss and boss's boss.  To this day, at all brat frys, she ops for the salad.



**********

Before his high school prom, a man was invited, along with a group of his friends, to his date's house for dinner.  His date's mother served fondue.  The young man had a skewer full of meat on his plate, freshly dipped in barbecue sauce.  When he brought his hand down, he accidentally hit the end of the skewer, flinging the barbecue slathered meat right onto his date's dress.  She was immediately whisked upstairs where all the women disappeared for a half hour.  The guys, not knowing what else to do, continued to fondue.

Bigsley and Bernadette: Preparing for Winter

"Let me guess," said Bigsley.  "You are trying to look silly in order to be ironic."

"What I am doing," replied Herman, "is preparing myself for migration season, something you might benefit from yourself."

"You're right!  I've got to remember to call the satellite guy and get my hook-up before the snow flies."

"I'm talking about getting out of the house for the winter.  I bet you've never been to Acapulco."

"Who needs Acapulco when you've got Oshkosh?"

Yet Another Thing That Seems Like It Should Be Easy But Isn't

Why is it so easy to tell a friend a story, the story say of being seventeen and driving to meet a guy, late for your first date, when into the road jumped a flashing orange stick and your heart slammed into your chest because it didn't make sense until you realized the stick was attached to a man, and the man was signaling with the orange stick to drive into a parking lot where a policeman was waiting to give you a ticket for driving 20 mph over the speed limit.  Of course, you said you didn't realize you were driving that fast, and now it's been so long that you can't remember if you really didn't or you actually did but just said you didn't, though that detail is so unimportant, it doesn't even come into the telling of the story to your friend.  You do tell how you were so scared, you cried.  Instead of the $250 ticket, the policeman offered you, as a first offender, the option of taking a defensive driving class for $75.  It was summer and the class was held downtown and so you cooked up a lie to tell your parents, that you were going to go golfing with that guy, the same one you were going to meet the night you got the speeding ticket, the guy who had since become your boyfriend. (Your friend interrupts the story to laugh at the absurdity of the lie.)  But oh how you would have rather been golfing on a beautiful summer's day, instead of sitting in a bland windowless room in downtown Omaha with a lot of stale looking adults, watching films of fatal car accidents.  Mostly, you were worried about running into your dad who worked downtown, so you skipped lunch and ate a candy bar out of the vending machine.  And when you got home and your mom asked you how was golfing, you said "great" in that same bored way you answered most every question she asked, so she didn't suspect a thing.

Why is a story like this so easy to tell, rolling out of your memory onto your tongue, but when you go to write it down, the story slithers away and in its place arises all kinds of diversions and abstractions, that in the breathless moment of creation appear pithy and interesting, but in the reality of the reader's mind are dizzying and incomprehensible at best?

Story of The Talker

Everyone knew who The Talker was, but no one really knew him. His voice was soft and quiet and he said mostly pleasant things, so everyone liked The Talker.  But no one really loved him.  

He lived by himself and had no family, no friends to speak of, and yet, he received many invitations. He was something of an art house piece. He strolled through any gathering, talking to everyone and talking to no one. Newcomers found him curious, then angering, and then, for the most part, amusing. He laughed at himself right along with everyone else, which made us come close to loving him.

But, he woke talking and fell asleep talking and talked every moment in between. He talked while he ate, while he drank, while he peed. He even talked in his dreams.

Then, at the coffee shop, one ordinary morning, right in the middle of a sentence, just like that, he stopped. He had finally reached his quota. His eyes grew big as he tried to speak. But he simply could not do it. Everyone stared, not knowing what to do, while he turned pink, then purple, then pale. He died standing up, with his mouth open wide, and not a single word left in him.  

And so it came to be that no one could stop talking about him, the talking man who was at long last, silent.

*Voice bubbles by Eleanora

The Photo of Balpreet Kaur

A man took a photo of a young woman he did not know and put it on the internet.  At the time, the young woman had been standing in line and texting and did not notice that someone had taken a picture of her.  (Even if she had been alert, she may not have known.  I've heard there are now glasses frames with hidden cameras that can shoot video.)  The man posted the photo of the young woman to a popular comedy chatroom.  The photo generated an avalanche of comments and soon the photo was forwarded around the internet, generating more comments, generating more forwards.  And then, one day, the young woman discovered that a photo of her texting while standing in line was being sent around the internet.  Many of the comments were mean-spirited.  But the young woman was not mad. She did not reflect back the derision that was directed at her.  Instead, she smiled.  She understood that people are conditioned by their culture to think in certain ways.  She visited the chatroom where so many strangers were howling about her, and she wrote:

Hey, guys. This is Balpreet Kaur, the girl from the picture. I actually didn't know about this until one of my friends told on facebook. If the OP wanted a picture, they could have just asked and I could have smiled :) However, I'm not embarrased or even humiliated by the attention [negative and positve] that this picture is getting because, it's who I am. Yes, I'm a baptized Sikh woman with facial hair. Yes, I realize that my gender is often confused and I look different than most women. However, baptized Sikhs believe in the sacredness of this body - it is a gift that has been given to us by the Divine Being [which is genderless, actually] and, must keep it intact as a submission to the divine will. Just as a child doesn't reject the gift of his/her parents, Sikhs do not reject the body that has been given to us. By crying 'mine, mine' and changing this body-tool, we are essentially living in ego and creating a seperateness between ourselves and the divinity within us. By transcending societal views of beauty, I believe that I can focus more on my actions. My attitude and thoughts and actions have more value in them than my body because I recognize that this body is just going to become ash in the end, so why fuss about it? When I die, no one is going to remember what I looked like, heck, my kids will forget my voice, and slowly, all physical memory will fade away. However, my impact and legacy will remain: and, by not focusing on the physical beauty, I have time to cultivate those inner virtues and hopefully, focus my life on creating change and progress for this world in any way I can. So, to me, my face isn't important but the smile and the happiness that lie behind the face are. :-) So, if anyone sees me at OSU, please come up and say hello. I appreciate all of the comments here, both positive and less positive because I've gotten a better understanding of myself and others from this. Also, the yoga pants are quite comfortable and the Better Together tshirt is actually from Interfaith Youth Core, an organization that focuses on storytelling and engagement between different faiths. :) I hope this explains everything a bit more, and I apologize for causing such confusion and uttering anything that hurt anyone.

The man who took the picture and posted it to the internet had been gleefully following the activity his photo had generated.  But when he read the young woman's comment, he felt the deep sinking of shame and embarrassment.  Only in the face of courage did he wonder, how could he have been such a coward?

Sylvia and Lil: Senior Moment

Sylvia and Lil stopped and watched the fledglings chirping and fluttering.

After a while, one flapped, and flew off.  Then the other two followed.

"Too bad," said Lil.

Sylvia agreed.  "Those are tasty."

They stared at the spot where the fledglings had been.  After a while, they forgot where they had been going.  Then they forgot where they had come from.  So they went back to staring though they couldn't exactly recall what they had been staring at.  

"Too bad," said Lil again.

And Sylvia agreed.

Thanksgiving Traditional

Dearest Relations,

Thank you for traveling so far to eat with us and our children.  We all benefit greatly from the tradition, reaffirming that indeed, our family lines both are crowded with kooks.  When you get old like us, you realize that these are not good or bad things.  That things simply are the way they are.  No matter how firmly we try to deny it, that is the truth we have learned.

We love you all, though we may not appreciate you always.  We are trying to get better at all things we do.  We are prone to much failure.  But failure, we have also learned, promotes our growth.  So, we try to call those successes.  This mostly feels very silly even though we understand the meaning of the exercise, failure always feels like failure.  

Fortunately, we have all you good people on our sides and it's for this that we thank you.  Because life is an easier journey when you have people there to encourage you to continue on your path.  Yes, this sounds silly too.  But these are the words that are currently in vogue for expressing gratitude. So those words come most naturally for us.

We continue to love you, 

Frida and Freddy