Just Pat

"...all language about everything is analogical; we think in a series of metaphors. We can explain nothing in terms of itself, but only in terms of other things." (Dorothy Sayers, Mind of the Maker, 1941)

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Location: West Michigan

Wednesday, April 28, 2004

Baby!!

Yep. I'm a great aunt for the first time today. Well, I like to think I've always been a great aunt. But now I'm a Great-Aunt.

Congratulations Tami, my noodle.

Congratulations Tina, my littlest sister and first grandparent of us kids.

Bless you Dan, and God give you wisdom and grace to father your son.

Welcome, sweet little boy. I love you already, darlin'.

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Monday, April 26, 2004

Unmetaphorable

Like it? I just made it up (I think).

On the menu tonight (I love this):

"Choice beef loin bottom sirloin butt sizzler boneless"

Whoa - it blows my mind just thinking of what commas in random places would do to dinner.

On a related topic, my sweet kitty Babette has not smelled very nice lately. I assumed it was her breath. She's a Blue Persian Smaller, sweet little blue-gray kitty with big orange eyes and a face like a grouper. Everything she does is cute. Because of her high breeding, she has some sad blue-blood anomalies, such as the tendency to resorb her teeth. She had to have all but seven pulled last year. Fortunately, her smile was never her greatest asset.

Before I had her teeth pulled her breath was horrible. The only other time she smells bad is when she has - well - cling-ons. This only happens when her hair is long and I don't groom her like I should. So, now that she has her summertime shaved coif going, I immediately thought of her mouth and last year's dollar signs.

Until last night when it dawned on me that it was altogether possible - yes, probable - that Babette is gassy. Farty and bloated. Farty. She doesn't smell all the time, so wouldn't you think it would occur to me? But no. Farting is much too low for my high bred cat.

I never would have thought it of her.

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Saturday, April 24, 2004

Freedom

Tonight I went to a local pub to hear a friend sing. It was open mike night, and there were a few artists lined up before my friend was up to bat.

The first guy up was hard to take. He chose songs that were at a pitch and fever that insufficiently masked...something. He seemed like he was trying to be someone else, sound like someone else...did he have talent or not? It was sort of hard to bear, sort of funny...I felt sorry for him. He was brave enough to get up to the mike, right? Then, maybe not. We don't have to be brave when we aren't who we are, just numb. Who am I to say. I wasn't playing.

The next guy at the plate began his set by smiling at a couple of folks in the audience while he tuned, then accidentally knocked over one of his monitors. It was useless after that. He smiled, made a joke, and then launched into his song.

He had me.

He sang a song that wasn't his, but he owned it. His body, his instrument, his voice, his presence...he was music. He was himself, and he was every song.

As he sang I couldn't take my eyes off him. I couldn't wait to see or hear the next thing from him. I was amazed that a bar full of people could be completely absorbed in their conversation and laughter and not see what was happening at the mike. The soul that was bare and beautiful before us. Free.

I long to be like him.



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Wednesday, April 21, 2004

I'm on the phone with Pops. Can't talk right now. Leave me alone already.

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