More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Do you think I know what I’m doing? That for one breath or half-breath I belong to myself? As much as a pen knows what it’s writing, or the ball can guess where it’s going next.
Every thirst gets satisfied except that of these fish, the mystics, who swim a vast ocean of grace still somehow longing for it!
It makes me want to cry how she detains you, stinking mouthed, with a hundred talons, putting her head over the roof edge to call down, tasteless fig, fold over fold, empty as dry-rotten garlic. She has you tight by the belt, even though there’s no flower and no milk inside her body. Death will open your eyes to what her face is: leather spine of a black lizard. No more advice. Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love.
oh no. china flag.
The story doesn’t mention what exactly—masturbation, peeping-tomming, whatever wild wantings young men think to do. Rumi told them not to worry about it. “It just means he’s growing his feathers. The dangerous case is a kid who doesn’t do indecent acts, who then leaves the nest without feathers. One flap and the cat has him.” Be careful, Rumi suggests, about shaming sexual behavior in an adolescent or anyone who hasn’t yet had his or her fill of erotic trancing.
shit
More advice: it is dangerous to let other men have intimate connections with the women in your care. Cotton and fire sparks, those are, together. Difficult, almost impossible, to quench.
getting close to a DNF here, rumi
Run when you hear that. A father’s stern slaps are better. Your bodily soul wants comforting. The severe father wants spiritual clarity.
china flag
