The Golden Door

The golden doorway leads to a room with lavish coaches and a blonde with a cigarette holder blowing a soft stream of smoke upwards at 45 degrees. Her left hand hangs over the couch with an absinthe at an expensive tilt. Knee bent, foot resting just next to a bald black man with corduroys and a waistcoat - no shirt. He's looking down at his shoes.

A lady with expensive perfume takes your hand and leads you to a corner, introduces you to artists and performing types, illustrators and magazine writers. Creatively employed but right now in pursuit of the art of nothing.

The room is green and you have arrived.

Diary of an unborn writer #26

If you ask a mathematician how he sees number - he will be unable to describe the wonder and imagination a linear row or matrix can fulfil in him.

What looks like a humble number line to you and I, speaks to him of nothing less than the rhythm and mystery of the universe.

So too with spirituality for me. Compassion, love, Truth and infinity rub up againist and codify each other, unlocking in an endless pattern until finally each is undone. There is nothing unmagical about this endless embrace and the more we see it in one area of life, the more we see it in all aspects of the cosmic surprise.