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In the tavern are many wines—the wine of delight in color and form and taste, the wine of the intellect’s agility, the fine port of stories, and the cabernet of soul singing. Being human means entering this place where entrancing varieties of desire are served.
God said, “The world is a play, a children’s game, and you are the children.” God speaks the truth. If you haven’t left the child’s play, how can you be an adult? Without purity of spirit, if you’re still in the middle of lust and greed and other warnings, you’re like children playing at sexual intercourse. They wrestle and rub together, but it’s not sex!
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Try and be a sheet of paper with nothing on it. Be a spot of ground where nothing is growing, where something might be planted, a seed, possibly, from the Absolute.
The Friend comes into my body looking for the center, unable to find it, draws a blade, strikes anywhere.
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.
