Thanksgiving
Last night, only because I'd had much wine... my husband was able to get me into a compromising situation. After we'd watched a marathon of Ghost Hunters and talked delightedly about the supernatural and the meaning of life and the nature (or lack thereof) of eternity... him plying me with more and more wine the while... he seduced me
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Singing is one part of the meaning of life. And it's a terrible thing that it's so ritualized and criticized, lifted into the realm of ego and competition and vile pageantry, in exactly the same way that it's terrible that humans aren't empathic. (I'm thinking Spider Robinson empathic, Betazoid empathic, not the rare miracle born among us who can "read" people.) Same thing with dancing, and art, and a lot of things. We're made to be ashamed, to leave it to the ones preening with years of polish. I'm a mezzosoprano myself, a lovely word!--and never would have known it unless I'd taken that voice class, the one where we all had to stand up eventually, blushing and shuffling, and sing, and plead with our eyes for the understanding that had to be there, that was, because we were all in it together, and the audience inevitably became the performance. The same class Keefe is taking next semester. I'm excited for him ( ... )
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