At the Museo Alameda:
It’s some part of an ongoing exhibit. I didn’t get the name of the installation. I didn’t get the name of the artist. I don’t even know if I’ve got it right, but part of the theme was the immigrant influence.
Immigrant influence? Even that’s funny. Which wave of immigrants? The ones who came over on the land bridge from Russia? The Clovis Point dudes? Spanish conquerers? Later (pale) northern european? Who can make the authoritative claim? Do Spanish Land grants truly qualify?
There was a series of masks, all looked alike, I’ll guess that’s what they were, a the usual shape, kind of square, chrome faceplate with oval eye openings and a square cut mouth. Maybe a dozen or more, arrayed on the wall, all the same. Mostly. A few of the masks were different. One was just chrome on top and blank material underneath. Another was striped, chrome and blank. The facial structure of the masks were all the same. Some of the coloring, done with chrome plating, it looked like, some of the masks were striped or split, half and half.
Is it a Leo link or Pisces?
“And more, much-much more!”
Dia de los Madres:
See, it’s a little play on word, Ma Wetzel’s birthday is Day of the Dead, and that’s the Spanish way to say Mother’s Day and never mind. If I have to explain the joke, it probably wasn’t that good in the first place.
“Thank you, thank you, we’ll be here all week.”
That award thing, the other week.
Ode to Mothers:
Yeah, not an ode, so ignore me.
“There are lie, damn lies and statistics,” attributed to Mark Twain.
“Kramer, be quiet, it’s Mother’s Day, she right until midnight Sunday night. Shush up, boy.”
Over supper in Austin, over dessert, several times, Ma Wetzel’s narrative departed from consensual reality. Massive departures. Left the planet. Carried on like it was nothing, bending, molding, melding and twisting facts so far from the truth that there’s no way to even to configure any kind of point where the parallel realities might meet. Parallel realities?
“Yeah, like a parallel universe, similar and yet different.”
Makes some sense.
Pen is Mightier:
Pen is mightier than the Scorpio wit?
My mother, she has this pen from a coastal hotel, almost a nice place. She clicked the pen, it was a freebie, and the plastic barrel separated. She reached into her small bag/pack/purse and pulled out a sandwich bag with several band-aids in it. She peeled the band-aid back and used it to stick the plastic barrel back together.
By the end of the afternoon, the pen was of more interest than anything else, the band-aid, the cap shooting across the room, the muted production of pen repair.