The Countdown

The Countdown

Learning how not to count when counting too much or too little.

When my friends tell me I count too much -and too little, I tell them this:

Driving though the harsh, historical, Tuscan landscape

Getting flat after flat

Popping tires like pancakes

Counting my bats with

Open and closed wings

And

The days approaching my birthday and Pisa on the horizon

In that order.

My car is hissing 

If I pull over will the Cops

Start frisking

I don't care for I am ready.

Ready to start counting the number of 

Olive pits that in a near future I shall spit.

Ready to follow scientists' advice in maximizing the human capacity of 

Ingesting 

Carciofi alla Giudia

in one hour 

Knowing that a wolf can do better but a black bear gets tired after 10 minutes.

(These Jewish fried artichokes need to be devoured with the spikes facing outwards.)

My hissing tires stop at the Tower of Pisa where during these Covid days

I count the minutes, not hours it takes to buy a ticket to go up 

257 steps to reach the 55 meter summit.

I try to imagine the years, the seasons, the 800 year old monument has been through

And tweeting it to my friends.

So much thinking, during the spiral ascent, gives me

Dizzy spells that I lose count 

How many calories I've consumed  and

How many Madonnas with Child

I've seen.

I remember the portobello mushroom combo with organic

Humus sauce needs only

A few hours of preparation unless

One counts the time it takes to prepare pita bread or

Sourdough, which is so much a la mode these days.

I am willing to bet that if I combine

Portobello, humus, tomatoes and mozzarella for

A period of 514 days

or 1 year, 5 months -minus one day,

 -a number representing a round trip up and down the Pisa tower-

My mother would applaud the nature of such a balanced  diet 

And historically I'm sure even Cimabue or Giotto or Caravaggio -much later on,

Couldn't do better.

I am also ready to stop counting

Stop counting how many times my bones

Crack in a day

Stop counting the percentage of battery remaining in my phone

Stop counting the times I have misplaced a sock, a key or a spare button.

At this juncture even my ability to calculate the saturation point of Love

Is something I can do away with

For Love should not be counted even though it counts.


And all this counting and not counting leads us to

My spaghetti al dente

Which may or may not be segmented.

Hence my steps, carbohydrates and artichokes

Could be inert entities within themselves

Cancelling each other out

While a male mermaid sings a song

Without a meter

The new Space X is launched

Without a countdown and

The Olympics is run without a timer.