Chaos & Order: What Has Sophia Done for You Today?
In prison, one of the novels I wrote (Mansions of the Moon: the Recluse) ends like this (in part) -- after 1,088 hand-written pages and 272 thousand words leading up to a seemingly anticlimactic conclusion:
. . . Were we playing the animal farm game? Was it necessary to kill and sacrifice in order to nurture and love? . . . Perhaps only Jeannie had understood it all, for she had said long ago that our struggle is not about good and evil but rather the preservation and renewal of life, including saving Gaia . . . . She was talking about creation and sustaining life and the earth in our own universe, I suppose.
The struggle would go on forever; I knew that implicitly now, for infinity is as infinity does, and the will to procreate -- or to create -- can never stop, since all universes must expand forever. Once the tiny spark of creation began there could be no turning back, for creation breeds creation without consideration or reflection, but rather solely in the name of existence. There can be no control of infinity -- only chaos boiling up out of the abyss, illuminated by the spark of primordial matter that may or may not be molded by the androgynous power of the All into the creation of orderly and definable substance, form, or life. Suddenly I knew that the wild anarchy of chaos and the controlled order of the cosmos were one and the same -- simply the antithesis of each other -- like the full cycle of the mansions of the moon.
So, it seems to me, if what I spent conjecturing about in the pages of this novel, which is packed full of misanthropic adventures and graphic illustrations about the struggle between good and evil and survival of the fittest, ends like this, it becomes hard for any thinking person to believe that the universe (or universes in the book's case) happened accidentally. There is, no doubt, a highest power, which many call the All, and perhaps an unimaginable number of lesser deities – the gods and goddesses we identify with on earth. We are born with faith, with a natural piety, a light that seems to dim in most of us as we grow older, conditioned by our social structure.
"... So be it when I shall grow old, or let me die! The child is father of the man; I could wish my days to be bound each to each by natural piety." -- William Wordsworth
I spent almost three years in prison (from July of 2004 to June of 2007). I entered as an ill-informed Deist and emerged as a somewhat knowledgeable Sophian Gnostic. How could such a transition happen, especially when there were no books about Sophia -- the goddess of wisdom -- or gnosticism? And, for sure, there were no inmates or prison staff who had the slightest idea what such stuff was all about -- including me, of course.
To pass the time, after about six long months behind bars, I began to write a book (The Sweetwater Conspiracy – a creative non-fiction western based on the true story of ruthless land-grabbing cattle barons who terrorize a vivacious young female homesteader in the Wyoming Territory in the late 1880's) that I had been researching in Wyoming for several months just before I was incarcerated. The writing went slowly at first, but as the months drifted by, something (a muse?) seemed to take charge of my effort, and the words began to flow prolifically, smoothly, and eloquently through my fingers to pen and paper. I began to write for 10 or 12 hours a day, lying on my upper bunk, propped up by a pillow against the concrete wall at my back, using an old back cover from a coffee table book I'd found in a trash can one day for a desk. In the mornings I'd re-read what I'd written (sometimes 20 pages or more) and find myself amazed that I had little or no recall of what I'd written the previous day. But as soon as I read the words, I remembered them; I knew in my mind they were the right words, and I knew what words would come next.
After I finished the Sweetwater book (in November of 2005), I began writing an erotic science fiction/fantasy novel I called Moon Shadows about voluptuous nimbus-clad daughters of ancient gods and goddesses who are reborn on earth to save humanity from the tyranny of the New World Order. But I didn't know very much about ancient gods and goddesses, and it troubled me that I was probably misrepresenting the historical myths about them. There was no way for me to do any kind of research, but I kept on writing, often unhappily, knowing I was wrong about who these neo-goddesses were and from where and whom they came.
During the time I was writing this novel my first parole hearing date came due, and I was sure in my own mind that I would be released on parole, since I had no criminal or misdemeanor record of any kind other than the instant offense, had maintained a perfect discipline-free record during my first year and a half of incarceration, and the crime was a white-collar one. But to my utter disbelief and dismay, my parole was denied (for reasons you'll learn of if you continue to follow this blog).
My world, as it existed then, fell to pieces, and my psyche hit rock-bottom. Desperate, I wrote letters to the parole board, the governor, the ACLU, and others – all to no avail. I considered suicide every day, and though I kept working on the novel, I wasn't happy with the work, nor my very existence. Then, at perhaps the lowest life-ebb of my many years, something incredible happened that changed my life forever.
One morning, when the guards electronically opened the doors from their remote observation bubble, I found a book lying at my cell door. Where it came from I shall never know. But it was the book that saved my life and gave me a whole new perspective about the meaning and purpose of life – not just my life, but everyone's. In a men's prison, it was the last book in the world one would expect to find. There was nothing like it in our 10x6-foot library, which contained only old science fiction, western, and mystery genre paperbacks – no research books of any kind, and, least of all, books about women. And I'd never spoken to a soul about the subjects or nature of my writing.
I leaned down and picked up the ragged paperback. The spine was broken and many pages were loose, but it was all there. I stared at the cover, disbelieving what my eyes told me the title was: To Be A Woman: The Birth of the Conscious Feminine. Glancing through the contents I saw that it was all about the psychology (Jungian) of women, the abandoned feminine, resacralizing the female body, reawakening the divine feminine, and the goddess archetypes – all stuff I needed to bring to life the goddesses in my manuscript.
Not only did the book do that, but it gave me that completely new perspective about life. I learned about the deep feminine, the goddesses, and, most important, Sophia, the lost goddess of wisdom, and a little about gnosticism and the difference between knowledge and belief – two totally different concepts of faith. Today my faith is complete in the knowledge that Sophia is my own supreme deity, and that she looks after me and gives my soul the strength and purpose I need to survive.
I wrote six manuscripts in prison – all about the deep and divine feminine -- and began a 7th not long before I was released, and never once did I have anything that could be defined as writer's block. There were days that I wrote only four or six pages, but I wrote every day. Today I'm trying my damndest to edit over 6 thousand hand-written pages, or 1.5 million words, as I convert the hand-crafted books to digital media on my computer. I'm still amazed by how little I remember of what I wrote over those 2½ years – until I re-read the material, and then it all comes back to me crisp and clear. I owe it all to Sophia, who was the one who sent me the muse, or, perhaps, was the muse.
These days, when I'm asked about my religious preference or beliefs, or if I believe in god, I don't hesitate to answer this way: I have no belief, no religion; I have knowledge, or gnosis. And I have Sophia. If you look for her she will let you find her, and if you love her she will love you, and if you serve her she will serve you. What more could anyone ask of their God? Of their Goddess?
I leave you for now with this: My son, if you find a man who knows Sophia, rise early to visit him, and let your feet wear out his doorstep. Listen my son, accept my judgment; do not reject my advice: put your feet in Sophia's fetters and your neck in Her collar. Stoop to carry Her on your shoulders and do not chafe at Her bonds. Come to Her whole-heartedly, and keep Her ways with all your might. Follow Her track, and She will make Herself known to you. And once you have grasped Her never let Her go. In the end She will transform Herself into pure joy; Her fetters will become your strong defense and Her collar a gorgeous robe. - from the book of Ecclesiasticus
Copyright (©2008) Albert Lloyd Williams
. . . Were we playing the animal farm game? Was it necessary to kill and sacrifice in order to nurture and love? . . . Perhaps only Jeannie had understood it all, for she had said long ago that our struggle is not about good and evil but rather the preservation and renewal of life, including saving Gaia . . . . She was talking about creation and sustaining life and the earth in our own universe, I suppose.
The struggle would go on forever; I knew that implicitly now, for infinity is as infinity does, and the will to procreate -- or to create -- can never stop, since all universes must expand forever. Once the tiny spark of creation began there could be no turning back, for creation breeds creation without consideration or reflection, but rather solely in the name of existence. There can be no control of infinity -- only chaos boiling up out of the abyss, illuminated by the spark of primordial matter that may or may not be molded by the androgynous power of the All into the creation of orderly and definable substance, form, or life. Suddenly I knew that the wild anarchy of chaos and the controlled order of the cosmos were one and the same -- simply the antithesis of each other -- like the full cycle of the mansions of the moon.
So, it seems to me, if what I spent conjecturing about in the pages of this novel, which is packed full of misanthropic adventures and graphic illustrations about the struggle between good and evil and survival of the fittest, ends like this, it becomes hard for any thinking person to believe that the universe (or universes in the book's case) happened accidentally. There is, no doubt, a highest power, which many call the All, and perhaps an unimaginable number of lesser deities – the gods and goddesses we identify with on earth. We are born with faith, with a natural piety, a light that seems to dim in most of us as we grow older, conditioned by our social structure.
"... So be it when I shall grow old, or let me die! The child is father of the man; I could wish my days to be bound each to each by natural piety." -- William Wordsworth
I spent almost three years in prison (from July of 2004 to June of 2007). I entered as an ill-informed Deist and emerged as a somewhat knowledgeable Sophian Gnostic. How could such a transition happen, especially when there were no books about Sophia -- the goddess of wisdom -- or gnosticism? And, for sure, there were no inmates or prison staff who had the slightest idea what such stuff was all about -- including me, of course.
To pass the time, after about six long months behind bars, I began to write a book (The Sweetwater Conspiracy – a creative non-fiction western based on the true story of ruthless land-grabbing cattle barons who terrorize a vivacious young female homesteader in the Wyoming Territory in the late 1880's) that I had been researching in Wyoming for several months just before I was incarcerated. The writing went slowly at first, but as the months drifted by, something (a muse?) seemed to take charge of my effort, and the words began to flow prolifically, smoothly, and eloquently through my fingers to pen and paper. I began to write for 10 or 12 hours a day, lying on my upper bunk, propped up by a pillow against the concrete wall at my back, using an old back cover from a coffee table book I'd found in a trash can one day for a desk. In the mornings I'd re-read what I'd written (sometimes 20 pages or more) and find myself amazed that I had little or no recall of what I'd written the previous day. But as soon as I read the words, I remembered them; I knew in my mind they were the right words, and I knew what words would come next.
After I finished the Sweetwater book (in November of 2005), I began writing an erotic science fiction/fantasy novel I called Moon Shadows about voluptuous nimbus-clad daughters of ancient gods and goddesses who are reborn on earth to save humanity from the tyranny of the New World Order. But I didn't know very much about ancient gods and goddesses, and it troubled me that I was probably misrepresenting the historical myths about them. There was no way for me to do any kind of research, but I kept on writing, often unhappily, knowing I was wrong about who these neo-goddesses were and from where and whom they came.
During the time I was writing this novel my first parole hearing date came due, and I was sure in my own mind that I would be released on parole, since I had no criminal or misdemeanor record of any kind other than the instant offense, had maintained a perfect discipline-free record during my first year and a half of incarceration, and the crime was a white-collar one. But to my utter disbelief and dismay, my parole was denied (for reasons you'll learn of if you continue to follow this blog).
My world, as it existed then, fell to pieces, and my psyche hit rock-bottom. Desperate, I wrote letters to the parole board, the governor, the ACLU, and others – all to no avail. I considered suicide every day, and though I kept working on the novel, I wasn't happy with the work, nor my very existence. Then, at perhaps the lowest life-ebb of my many years, something incredible happened that changed my life forever.
One morning, when the guards electronically opened the doors from their remote observation bubble, I found a book lying at my cell door. Where it came from I shall never know. But it was the book that saved my life and gave me a whole new perspective about the meaning and purpose of life – not just my life, but everyone's. In a men's prison, it was the last book in the world one would expect to find. There was nothing like it in our 10x6-foot library, which contained only old science fiction, western, and mystery genre paperbacks – no research books of any kind, and, least of all, books about women. And I'd never spoken to a soul about the subjects or nature of my writing.
I leaned down and picked up the ragged paperback. The spine was broken and many pages were loose, but it was all there. I stared at the cover, disbelieving what my eyes told me the title was: To Be A Woman: The Birth of the Conscious Feminine. Glancing through the contents I saw that it was all about the psychology (Jungian) of women, the abandoned feminine, resacralizing the female body, reawakening the divine feminine, and the goddess archetypes – all stuff I needed to bring to life the goddesses in my manuscript.
Not only did the book do that, but it gave me that completely new perspective about life. I learned about the deep feminine, the goddesses, and, most important, Sophia, the lost goddess of wisdom, and a little about gnosticism and the difference between knowledge and belief – two totally different concepts of faith. Today my faith is complete in the knowledge that Sophia is my own supreme deity, and that she looks after me and gives my soul the strength and purpose I need to survive.
I wrote six manuscripts in prison – all about the deep and divine feminine -- and began a 7th not long before I was released, and never once did I have anything that could be defined as writer's block. There were days that I wrote only four or six pages, but I wrote every day. Today I'm trying my damndest to edit over 6 thousand hand-written pages, or 1.5 million words, as I convert the hand-crafted books to digital media on my computer. I'm still amazed by how little I remember of what I wrote over those 2½ years – until I re-read the material, and then it all comes back to me crisp and clear. I owe it all to Sophia, who was the one who sent me the muse, or, perhaps, was the muse.
These days, when I'm asked about my religious preference or beliefs, or if I believe in god, I don't hesitate to answer this way: I have no belief, no religion; I have knowledge, or gnosis. And I have Sophia. If you look for her she will let you find her, and if you love her she will love you, and if you serve her she will serve you. What more could anyone ask of their God? Of their Goddess?
I leave you for now with this: My son, if you find a man who knows Sophia, rise early to visit him, and let your feet wear out his doorstep. Listen my son, accept my judgment; do not reject my advice: put your feet in Sophia's fetters and your neck in Her collar. Stoop to carry Her on your shoulders and do not chafe at Her bonds. Come to Her whole-heartedly, and keep Her ways with all your might. Follow Her track, and She will make Herself known to you. And once you have grasped Her never let Her go. In the end She will transform Herself into pure joy; Her fetters will become your strong defense and Her collar a gorgeous robe. - from the book of Ecclesiasticus
vvv
Copyright (©2008) Albert Lloyd Williams
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