If you ask nine different people what man is, or what God is, or what anything is, you’ll get nine different answers. We use words thinking they will mean the same thing to others as they mean to us. But they don’t. They can’t. Everybody understands everything through the filter of his own experience.
Numbers are clear, but words are vague, foggy, obfuscating and contradictory. That’s why the heart doesn’t use them, and why lovers need silence.
Ours was not a happy home. My father was violent and hyper-religious. He beat me with his belt while I lay draped across what was always a perfectly made bed, pants and underwear puddled around my ankles. Two of my three siblings, a brother and a sister, killed themselves.
A voice said, “Call the angels.” And angels came—angels enough to revivify William Blake, angels seen and unseen, women angels, men angels, child angels, a whole dance of them.
Each person expresses the same consciousness. When I meet you behind your eyes, on the other side of the thought screen, I find the essence of myself, the love that I am.
Astigmatism occurs when my vision becomes obscured by memories of pleasure (what I want) and of pain (what I avoid). These memories coalesce into habits. Habits entwine, stiffen, become coarse and spiny-briny. During which process the inevitable happens: I lose my yield.