After Prison: Reclaiming the Lost Soul into Holiness or Madness
In my September 30 essay, Muses About Muses, I touched on my new Muse – a woman who stole my heart and rekindled in me some of the confidence and zest for life that I'd lost while I was incarcerated.
Prison existence destroys the ego, takes one's pride and confidence away, and leaves one with nothing but fear and self-loathing. The correctional system is designed to break one down to little more than a plasmatic puddle of subservient humility and self-pity. Perhaps this is what some public offenders need in order to re-enter society successfully, but in my own case the descent into useless oblivion was devastating to my sense of well-being and self-assurance. I trusted no one – not even myself – and I was angry and bitter toward any kind of authority or guidance.
Shortly after my release from prison an employment counselor assigned to my case interviewed me briefly, looked over my impressive resume, and laughed derisively. "All I see here is all about you, you, you," he said with disgust. I didn't understand what he meant then, but I do now. He was right; I had no right to expect that I could walk out of prison and seamlessly return to my old life -- complete with my old credentials, my old skills, my old experience, and my old status among men. There was no way I could ever be that person again. It took me a few months to realize it, but the truth was, I didn't even want to be that person again. So I took a job helping animals, namely cats, at a huge animal shelter.
In the beginning I had little money and no car, so I rode the bus for three hours every day to get back and forth to work. The work was pleasantly physical in an aerobics-like way, and emotionally satisfying for its care-giver element, and it took some of the bitter edginess off me. Gradually I became more comfortable with myself and my bottom-feeder station in life. Yet the emptiness, the uselessness, tugged at my heartstrings. I wanted to grow, to work my way out of poverty and depression, to feel what life was all about again. But I didn't know how to because I could never again be the person I once was. It was like being reborn at 65. I couldn't write anymore; I couldn't concentrate, and melancholy overwhelmed me at times. But I struggled gamely on.
It was late in October or early November – a cold predawn morning – that I first met her. From the last bus stop I had about a ¾-mile walk to the animal shelter, walking every morning in the dark along a busy thoroughfare with no sidewalk for pedestrians, and I was always the only pedestrian. She was driving a small SUV, and she startled me, pulling quickly off to the side of the road onto the gravel siding I walked along, stopping just in front of me. In the dim light of streetlights I could see that the driver was a woman, and I walked up to her car on the passenger side as the door window slid down. Peering in at her I saw a flicker of a smile, and then she told me to get in before we got hit. I opened the door and climbed in as she explained she knew who I was and that she, too, worked at the shelter. Her voice, with its slight Norwegian accent, and her lithe, tomboyish, appearance and manner captivated me instantly. We introduced ourselves in the minute or two it took to reach the parking area of the shelter; I thanked her for the ride, slipped out of her car, walked with her into the building, and we went our separate ways. Her name was Vonice, and she was the medical clinic manager, a place in the shelter I had never been.
A few days later I found myself permanently assigned to caring for animals in the clinic, and Vonice and I became close friends over the next few months; by January I'd fallen hopelessly in love with her. But she was married, and I could enjoy only our casual friendship, though my body and soul ached with longing for hers.
She became a crutch of sorts for me, gradually bringing me out of my prison-induced melancholy, instilling hope and love and confidence back into my heart and mind. I leaned on her heavily, becoming dependent on her for support and friendship. She kindly but firmly rejected my subtle advances for a more intimate relationship. Gradually I became obsessed with her until I could think of nothing else. By March or April she had become my Zahir. I had given myself to her but she had taken only my heart – and now, seven or eight months later, as I write this, she has taken over my mind entirely. But for better or worse, I owe my life to her, and for that I am eternally grateful to her.
"According to the writer Jorge Luis Borges, the idea of the Zahir comes from Islamic tradition and is thought to have arisen at some point in the eighteenth century. Zahir, in Arabic, means visible, present, incapable of going unnoticed. It is someone or something which, once we have come into contact with them or it, gradually occupies our every thought, until we can think of nothing else. This can be considered either a state of holiness or of madness." - Faubourg Saint-Peres (1953)
Either way -- holiness or madness -- it doesn't matter. Vonice is my Zahir, like it or not. As you might expect though not agree, I really don't think I'm mad, and I'm convinced that she is a divine goddess sent to me by the holy Sophia so that our souls may be reunited in love and spirituality to serve a higher purpose. (See the poem Ode to the Lost Goddess in the Muses About Muses essay.) That would be holiness, and I had written that Muse-inspired poem about her divinity before I ever heard of such a thing as a Zahir.
I want to say these words to her to plead my case: I beg you, Vonice, please, do not shut me out of your life. I ask you to open your mind to the possibility that our meeting was not simple coincidence, not purely accidental, but, rather, divine destiny, preordained. You have a mission to fulfill on this earth, and I have been asked to reveal it to you and to teach you -- to be your mentor -- and to guide you along the way toward accomplishing your mission.
I love you, and I know that you love me too in your way; so, if you open your mind and your heart, the vision will be revealed to you through me, and our souls will be united as one as they once were long, long, ago in another time and space; and together we will be able to fulfill our destiny.
But those words sound more like madness than holiness, I'm sure, to everyone but me, including, most importantly, her. So, in order to approach her in a manner that, by its literary nature, seems perhaps something less than the desperate words of a madman, I wrote this poem for her, for she is the love of my life (alas, a love unrequited) as well as my new Muse:
Love's Lost Souls
Oh, sweet Vonice, I'm lost without you.
My life has no purpose anymore,
Other than learning of why and who
I am, and what's beyond -- what's in store --
When my soul departs for higher ground,
And my spirit reaches out to grip
The last crevice crack to crest the mound
That raises me beyond this life's trip.
We were brought together for treasures
That go beyond life's normal purpose –
More than for love and sexual pleasures –
On the path of Wisdom's plans for us.
Until I saw you, in the darkness
Of a cold pre-dawn autumn morning,
I'd no idea that your likeness
Existed anywhere near my being.
But there you were, so lovely, surreal,
Rescuing me from the elements
With a brashness that I sure do feel
No other woman would ever chance.
We fell in love in our different ways.
Yours was platonic, and mine intense
With sensual yearning that grew by days
Till passion betrayed my common sense.
You have resisted my advances
With your compassion, love, and honor
In order to preserve the chances
Of our friendly love growing stronger.
But without our sacred vows above,
Consummate in the bridal chamber
Of pleroma's house of divine love,
Our souls will drift apart forever.
VVV
Prison existence destroys the ego, takes one's pride and confidence away, and leaves one with nothing but fear and self-loathing. The correctional system is designed to break one down to little more than a plasmatic puddle of subservient humility and self-pity. Perhaps this is what some public offenders need in order to re-enter society successfully, but in my own case the descent into useless oblivion was devastating to my sense of well-being and self-assurance. I trusted no one – not even myself – and I was angry and bitter toward any kind of authority or guidance.
Shortly after my release from prison an employment counselor assigned to my case interviewed me briefly, looked over my impressive resume, and laughed derisively. "All I see here is all about you, you, you," he said with disgust. I didn't understand what he meant then, but I do now. He was right; I had no right to expect that I could walk out of prison and seamlessly return to my old life -- complete with my old credentials, my old skills, my old experience, and my old status among men. There was no way I could ever be that person again. It took me a few months to realize it, but the truth was, I didn't even want to be that person again. So I took a job helping animals, namely cats, at a huge animal shelter.
In the beginning I had little money and no car, so I rode the bus for three hours every day to get back and forth to work. The work was pleasantly physical in an aerobics-like way, and emotionally satisfying for its care-giver element, and it took some of the bitter edginess off me. Gradually I became more comfortable with myself and my bottom-feeder station in life. Yet the emptiness, the uselessness, tugged at my heartstrings. I wanted to grow, to work my way out of poverty and depression, to feel what life was all about again. But I didn't know how to because I could never again be the person I once was. It was like being reborn at 65. I couldn't write anymore; I couldn't concentrate, and melancholy overwhelmed me at times. But I struggled gamely on.
It was late in October or early November – a cold predawn morning – that I first met her. From the last bus stop I had about a ¾-mile walk to the animal shelter, walking every morning in the dark along a busy thoroughfare with no sidewalk for pedestrians, and I was always the only pedestrian. She was driving a small SUV, and she startled me, pulling quickly off to the side of the road onto the gravel siding I walked along, stopping just in front of me. In the dim light of streetlights I could see that the driver was a woman, and I walked up to her car on the passenger side as the door window slid down. Peering in at her I saw a flicker of a smile, and then she told me to get in before we got hit. I opened the door and climbed in as she explained she knew who I was and that she, too, worked at the shelter. Her voice, with its slight Norwegian accent, and her lithe, tomboyish, appearance and manner captivated me instantly. We introduced ourselves in the minute or two it took to reach the parking area of the shelter; I thanked her for the ride, slipped out of her car, walked with her into the building, and we went our separate ways. Her name was Vonice, and she was the medical clinic manager, a place in the shelter I had never been.
A few days later I found myself permanently assigned to caring for animals in the clinic, and Vonice and I became close friends over the next few months; by January I'd fallen hopelessly in love with her. But she was married, and I could enjoy only our casual friendship, though my body and soul ached with longing for hers.
She became a crutch of sorts for me, gradually bringing me out of my prison-induced melancholy, instilling hope and love and confidence back into my heart and mind. I leaned on her heavily, becoming dependent on her for support and friendship. She kindly but firmly rejected my subtle advances for a more intimate relationship. Gradually I became obsessed with her until I could think of nothing else. By March or April she had become my Zahir. I had given myself to her but she had taken only my heart – and now, seven or eight months later, as I write this, she has taken over my mind entirely. But for better or worse, I owe my life to her, and for that I am eternally grateful to her.
"According to the writer Jorge Luis Borges, the idea of the Zahir comes from Islamic tradition and is thought to have arisen at some point in the eighteenth century. Zahir, in Arabic, means visible, present, incapable of going unnoticed. It is someone or something which, once we have come into contact with them or it, gradually occupies our every thought, until we can think of nothing else. This can be considered either a state of holiness or of madness." - Faubourg Saint-Peres (1953)
Either way -- holiness or madness -- it doesn't matter. Vonice is my Zahir, like it or not. As you might expect though not agree, I really don't think I'm mad, and I'm convinced that she is a divine goddess sent to me by the holy Sophia so that our souls may be reunited in love and spirituality to serve a higher purpose. (See the poem Ode to the Lost Goddess in the Muses About Muses essay.) That would be holiness, and I had written that Muse-inspired poem about her divinity before I ever heard of such a thing as a Zahir.
I want to say these words to her to plead my case: I beg you, Vonice, please, do not shut me out of your life. I ask you to open your mind to the possibility that our meeting was not simple coincidence, not purely accidental, but, rather, divine destiny, preordained. You have a mission to fulfill on this earth, and I have been asked to reveal it to you and to teach you -- to be your mentor -- and to guide you along the way toward accomplishing your mission.
I love you, and I know that you love me too in your way; so, if you open your mind and your heart, the vision will be revealed to you through me, and our souls will be united as one as they once were long, long, ago in another time and space; and together we will be able to fulfill our destiny.
But those words sound more like madness than holiness, I'm sure, to everyone but me, including, most importantly, her. So, in order to approach her in a manner that, by its literary nature, seems perhaps something less than the desperate words of a madman, I wrote this poem for her, for she is the love of my life (alas, a love unrequited) as well as my new Muse:
Love's Lost Souls
Oh, sweet Vonice, I'm lost without you.
My life has no purpose anymore,
Other than learning of why and who
I am, and what's beyond -- what's in store --
When my soul departs for higher ground,
And my spirit reaches out to grip
The last crevice crack to crest the mound
That raises me beyond this life's trip.
We were brought together for treasures
That go beyond life's normal purpose –
More than for love and sexual pleasures –
On the path of Wisdom's plans for us.
Until I saw you, in the darkness
Of a cold pre-dawn autumn morning,
I'd no idea that your likeness
Existed anywhere near my being.
But there you were, so lovely, surreal,
Rescuing me from the elements
With a brashness that I sure do feel
No other woman would ever chance.
We fell in love in our different ways.
Yours was platonic, and mine intense
With sensual yearning that grew by days
Till passion betrayed my common sense.
You have resisted my advances
With your compassion, love, and honor
In order to preserve the chances
Of our friendly love growing stronger.
But without our sacred vows above,
Consummate in the bridal chamber
Of pleroma's house of divine love,
Our souls will drift apart forever.
VVV
Copyright (©2008) Albert Lloyd Williams
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