Poisoned apple, poisoned gift, all the sorrows of life on the great wheel of becoming. Something must be given. Something must be let go. Poison and medicine are samsara and nirvana, forever wedded. In an African version of the Pandora story, what was left at the bottom of the casket was a gourd of beer, that given by the gods.
Enthusiasm is ebriety.
As with new wine intoxicated both They swim in mirth, and fancy that they feel Divinity within them breeding wings. A fugitive quality, a beyondness. Atalanta fleeing, the Great Matter, ultimate seriousness, but it never quite stops dancing. We can point to it, we can present it, but in the end it refuses definition. And we are grateful.