AS THE EARTH RETURNS IN its orbit to where it was last year, here is a look at the top ten posts The Metaphorager’s readers enjoyed (I hope) during the past twelve months:
My Favorite Jewish Joke – 80 Views
As it says. I have a couple of others; but this one, with its Hidden Truth, never fails to amuse and amaze.
How To Wash The Dishes – 53 views
A discipline drawn from months and years of twice-daily practice.
365 Names of God: “The Light of Eternal Mind” – 53 Views
Non-coincidentally, my favorite line from C.B.DeM.’s The Ten Commandments.
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“WHAT MAKES A MEAL A meal?” asked one of Prosatio Silban‘s customers over a plate of pan-seared fidget-hen breast, green beans and blue rice.
“Many have attempted to define that term,” answered the Cook For Any Price, wiping his hands on his apron. “Some say it has to do with cooking or presenting the food a certain way. Others aver that it has to do with one’s dining companions. But I think it has to do with the transcendental appreciation of the fare and the setting, when Time slips away and only sheer enjoyment reigns. Moments like those cannot be replicated or defined — only experienced.”
Who’s “Prosatio Silban,” you may ask? Here’s a partial answer: http://metaphorager.net/wtmw/.
OVERHEARD IN THE GROCERY CHECKOUT line, the following exchange between tall father and fidgety small son:
SS (holding a 2021 Star Wars calendar): Look! It’s Darth Vader. And Luke Skywalker.
TF: Luke is a Jedi, right?
TF: Jedi are very patient. Do you know what Luke does every morning?
TF: He takes deep breaths.
TF: Will you take five deep breaths with me so we can be patient too?
TF: …how about three breaths?
A young person who goes out and sees this great conjunction now can potentially see the next close one in 2080. It’d be a nice connection between generations, one that makes you think about all those who have seen these conjunctions in the past–and those who will glimpse it in the future.”
— Astronomer Patrick Hartigan on tonight’s celestial event
WITH A PATIENCE DERIVED FROM long practice, Prosatio Silban measured his pain and disgust against the vast cold deeps of Time.
It was an old reflex, and a welcome corrective to the blood trickling from his arms and legs, not to mention the ropy brown slime soiling his apron, hands and face. The odor of putrid meat hung raggedly in the air, as did the fading echo of a soggy explosion which a lesser man would require weeks of strong drink to forget.
The banquet had not gone at all well. But what else could one expect, on Rifting Eve?
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Truly, you are where your mind is.”
–Baal Shem Tov
THEY WERE STURDY, SQUAT AND rowdy, but also virtuosi of fire and metal – which was only one of many reasons why Prosatio Silban always enjoyed the Delvers’ company.
He had arrived for the first time at their northern realm – aptly named Deephall – just that morning and immediately felt at home. He had had dealings with their people before, but not this branch. The Skydiggers of the Exilic Lands’ southern mountains were a grim, hardworking bunch, coarse of manner and gruff to outsiders. But these four-armed, bright-eyed underground folk, who had consented to teach him their foodways, were quite their opposite: friendly, easygoing, with large hands and long slender fingers which made them matchless tinkerers and machinists.
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