An artist friend who spent the last two years of our Master’s life working hand-to-hand in the same small studio with Him — and who was with Him when His body dropped — told me the other evening over a thimble of bourbon that above all else, beyond all else, before all else: our Guru was a pattern-breaker.
He said: first thing, when our Master stepped through the doorway every morning, He’d size up the room in a glance, and then start kicking out the psychic door jambs, unsubordinating Himself on all fronts, cleaving patterns, unlocking foreheads, until wind and sunlight were flowing freely again, permitting Him to Work.
“That’s what I look for these days," said my friend. "That’s what makes me growl inside. When I don’t see it. That’s what I miss.”
My friend shuffled his young hands, his gifts of life around the tabletop. Then took another sip of plenty poison, polling the amber glass.