I think I saw God today in the form of a little old man with a long white beard and forelocks and fringes. When I first saw him he was lying in his bed, in a bed sitter in the lower floor of a stone house. The door into the dooryard was army green and almost off its hinge. How could I have known the mysterious old man was the ancient painter who paints with magic fingers. And could paint portals into space without changing his brush. He has painted the whole world and even more of the universe in an old house with a broken courtyard in Rav Kook street in Jerusalem. In fact when he showed me his paintings of the creation of the world I thought for a moment I was there. And when I saw his Jerusalem, white and pure, and floating above the earth on a cloud of 600000 hebrew letters I also believed him, because of course I saw it with my eyes. And I also thought I was in the courtyard of the halls of heaven because he had even painted what I had felt when I had read the psalm of the fishes and their paths in the sea, and the smallness of a man, and the womb from which he was brought forth. He had even painted the holding of my breath and how I had wondered about it all on a spring day 7 years ago. He had painted the music of heaven and how it dances off the corners of these stones and breezes across my face. I hadn't known it until now. And how love surges from the heart of the yod, blasting out and transforming into the colours of a rainbow.
Fancy finding the heart of heaven in a ramshackle and broken down house in Rav Kook Street Jerusalem.
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