...quite like the "hey, I was sitting on that!" look the cat gives me when I move my arm to type. At least her new favorite pose has her supporting her front with her paws on the arm of the chair, or my hands would have withered away from lack of blood flow. As it is I'm probably courting RSI something fierce.
She's pretty spry, throwing her catnip eggplant around, even if she is going piebald with grey patches. She's not grey at the muzzle yet, though. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 11 or 12, she is, I guess.
What is the Leonard Cohen lyric: "With one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose"... If I had to cast my life in terms of a quest, it would be to somehow catch a true glimpse of mystery, or Mystery, or the mystery - which I can only define as that which makes sense but which I cannot explain. Something that can not be expressed in words, that truly exists but which cannot be described. Borges seems to have seen this thing - what's more, to have it to hand to call upon at will, multifoliate and ill-clothed in the fabric of reality: an angel in sackcloth, the rarefied and adamantine bones of the universe visible under the ragged skin. "With one hand on the hexagram and one hand on the girl" - it is reflected in the Zahir, in the mirror which opened into Uqbar, in Borges who is-and-is-not Borges, speaking himself to himself, speaking to empty air.
I pretend that should we meet, we would have long conversations in silence about this. It seems arrogant to feel kinship with someone so accomplished, but even in a second language I keep turning corners to find him speaking the unsaid words in my mouth, the unformed desires in my heart.