I have found that, as important as a straight-prose analysis of homelessness is, pure rationality fails to do justice to the complexity of the Zarim experience. As with any affair of the heart, the tools and techniques of poetry and art are better equipped to communicate such intricate and complex layers and angles. For this reason I have produced a handful of creative pieces, rooted in my own personal experiences, that attempt to paint a more 3-dimensional picture of homelessness. I call this series “Gonzo Academia” because, like Hunter S. Thompson’s Gonzo Journalism, each piece merges intellectual exploration with creative expression and makes no bones about blurring the lines between subjectivity and objectivity.

This piece, called The Ruins of Maya, explores the complex and elusive relationship between brokenness and transcendental experiences.

…

I remember that euphoric feeling as a child of spinning my world into being. Everywhere I looked my heart connected. Every shimmering leaf from the great Elms on 5th was a dazzling vision, every creak from our Spanish Harlem hardwoods an alluring siren song. I remember being madly in love with everything I perceived, from the sublime to the banal, and every breath I drew was hallelujah.*

And I remember knowing it all to be a lie.

My lie. My lovely, succulent, lie. I knew, even as a child, that the world around me had no intrinsic charm, but I was compelled to impose charm upon it. I breathed life into every crack on every wall, into every worn banister in our tenement stairway, into the rooftop obelisks cloaked in blue-black tar, and the water towers that watched over the city like alien sentries. I breathed my world into being, gave it life and love, so it would love me back.

And I remember having a strange thought as I watched my mother fall apart. So strange it felt somehow forbidden. I remember thinking, as I watched her face pucker in agony and the tears stream down her face

…how beautiful. 

It was as if, in that sheet of charcoal darkness that enveloped her, poking through a hole barely the size of an atom shone some kind of inexplicable brilliance…something at once barely noticeable and yet blindingly unmistakable. 

There was something about the truth of her despair, something about how, in her agony, and only in such agony, as she, and my world, the world I had spun, crumbled, as the blue-black obelisks buckled and the Elms turned to ash, something achingly profoundly overwhelmingly lovely had been revealed. Something beyond the radiant facade.

Something like heaven.

…

The weak utilitarian glow of the church security light soaked the loading dock in lifeless amber. I recognized the woman kneeling there, not by any of her physical features, all of which had been obscured by the long, hooded fake fur coat she wore that was caked with the grime of the streets. I recognized her from the gentle, even meek, tone of her greeting.

“God bless you, sir,” she said to me that night as I walked out onto the dock. Just as she had said to me many times in our frequent rendezvous at the church. 

Around her was the usual flotsam, including a collection of plastic bags overflowing with papers, photos, old limbless dolls, and other paraphernalia that, ostensibly, meant something deeply to this woman. There was also a tattered paper-thin dirty blanket, a smattering of wrappers and crumbs of candy and crackers, and a bible.

It was supposedly my job to remove her, and all other “trespassers,” from church property. I never did.

“Are you ok, m’am?” I asked her, “just checking to be sure.”

“I am good, sir, thank you, sir. And God bless you sir.”

“God bless you too, m’am.”

…

And through that atom-sized pinhole in the ink black fabric came dreams…dreams of a different kind. Not the usual stew of neurosis and chaos, of leaden feet struggling to navigate tectonic plates of shifting landscapes, or the endless theater of old hangups. For sure, those sorry dreams continued. But poking through that human mud from time to time came dreams of portent and beauty, dreams of etherial majesty and poetic mystery, dreams of flight and flowers, carved from iridescent pearl. It was as if this restless chained dog got tossed a heavenly bone, scraps from God’s dinner table, every once in a merciful while.

The first, the one of my grandmother just following her death, ripped through the fabric like a fist of fire. The white of the room pulsed as bright as the blast of an atom bomb, and yet my eyes were soothed rather than singed. Framed by the bay windows and enveloped in flowers, she was recognizably the woman who raised me in the wake of my mother’s fall, and yet she was something else, too…something more, and something other. 

I stood there momentarily frozen in shock until she beckoned me towards her, and as our hands touched I crumpled to my knees and began to sob like a helpless child. A lifetime of pain rained down my cheeks as she held my hand with tender but firm intent. 

“Why did you come back?” I asked as the sobs began to wane.

“I just came to tell you I’m fine…and you will be, too”

The spasms of grief steadied into calm slow breath tinged with love and longing. There was so much I wanted to say to her, so much I wished I could have said while she was alive, how hurt I was by her distance as she licked her own wounds of grief from my grandfathers death, yet how much I loved her and was grateful just for her being there, tending to me and my brother in our shock and despair. I knew she did the best she could. And I knew, at this moment, as I knelt before her, that I did not need to utter a word. I knew that she knew every word in my heart. I looked up to see her one last time. But she was gone. 

I could see the night sky through the bay windows just past my outstretched arm. My fingers were still curled tightly, and I still felt the warmth of her hand in mine. I slowly lowered my fist until it was right before my eyes and I paused momentarily, contemplating what had just happened, and what it was I still felt with me, what of her she left behind. As I slowly uncurled my fingers I saw first its green edge and then the form became clear. Resting gently in the palm of my hand in soft radiance was the solitary leaf of a plant.  

…

He cut a familiar silhouette in the dark underpass on Central Ave as he struggled to his feet. I recognized first the long gnarled fingers grasped tightly around his carved wooden staff.

“Hello Ian!” he said in his jovial twang as I grabbed him gently by his khaki clad arm, “Good to see you my friend!” 

“Likewise, my friend, likewise! Which way you headed?”

“Oh,” he chuckled, “that way I guess,” he said as he jutted his sharp chin towards the East Mountains. I helped him sling his large, tattered pack onto his back and we slowly made our way down the tunnel. I noticed the limp in his gait was slightly more pronounced than usual. 

“How’s that hip of yours?”

“Oh, you know…it’s been better I guess. Can’t really complain, though, others got it much worse than I do.”

The headlights of the passing cars strobed through the pillars as we walked, making the graffiti on the walls flicker and dance like an old Zoetrope. 

“You should swing by the church again for some lunch tomorrow, take a load off.”

“Thanks, Ian, I appreciate the invite. I just might take you up on that.” 

As we exited the underpass I could see the skies thickening from the late afternoon summer monsoons. 

“We’ll see how the deliveries go,” he said flashing a smile of scattered teeth like weathered pebbles,

“People are depending on me, can’t let them down.”

“Of course, my friend. Of course” 

…

The massive structure, obscured in light green mist, cast an aura of mythical but forbidden import, like Machu Piccu, or Oz. Though I stood in brush hundreds of feet above its base, I could not see much beyond a handful of domes and spires cresting the towering walls that secured the compound. Still, I found my way inside. I knew I had to, for some reason. 

The rooms were cavernous but their clay walls of soft angles made them warm and inviting. Scores of women clad in radiant white robes that shrouded their features from head to toe milled about with authority and unknown purpose. A narrow padded table stood in the middle of one of the rooms. As I lay down upon it one of the women approached me and directed my attention to an alcove carved into one of the walls. 

It was at first just a subtle glow inside a small nook, but as I fixed my gaze upon it I saw a beautiful flower resting gently on the bottom of the cubby. As soon as I recognized it’s form it appeared inches before my eyes and I could see every exquisite detail…it’s thin, white, finger-like peddles reaching upward and arching outward, the cluster of stigma that burst out from its heart like a super nova, and the stubble of short thick hairs that speckled a stem as thick as a Christmas candle. 

“That’s your flower,” said the woman in white, “but you’re not ready for it yet.”

…

“Do I look familiar to you, sir?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. 

“Familiar?”

“Yes, sir. Do I look like someone you might know?”

I began to shake a little.

“We know each other pretty well at this point, don’t you think m’am?”

“Ok, sir. Yes, I suppose we do.”

“Would you like me to turn this light off for you?” I asked, pointing to the dingy yellow security bulb that protruded like a sore by the door frame. “Might be easier to sleep.” 

“And to dream, sir, that wold be much appreciated.” 

Yes, and to dream. I reached around the corner to the light switch just inside the church. 

“How is that?” I asked. 

“Much better, sir, thank you.” 

The church dock was now alive with shadows. I stood there silently with her, the woman cloaked in matted fake fur kneeling on the church loading dock. The faint tide of traffic could be heard ebbing and flowing on nearby Coal Avenue.

“Do you know the Book of Job, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I know it ok, m’am” I said as I gently closed the loading dock door behind me and sat down beside her.  “I’m Jewish, so. And it’s the first book of the Bible.”

“Yes, first book of the Bible. Very pious man,” she said. “Never lost his faith you know. No matter what.”

“Yes indeed, m’am. Very pious. Most pious man in all the land, they said.”

“Yes, that’s right sir, most pious. I know Job well.” she said as she gently passed her fingers over the pages of the bible that was open next to her.

“Quite well.”

“Yes m’am.” I said. “I’m sure.”

…

I felt the familiar thrill of weightlessness as a pair of large wooden doors framed by a white exterior wall came into sharp focus in the near distance. As I approached I could see thick carvings of simple square geometry in the shiny tan wood just before passing through into a large multi-storied rectangular room lit by shafts of sunlight. 

I noticed then I was not alone. The room was filled with other rapt fliers whom I had joined in the air as we joyously circled the space together. We dipped and rose around playfully like dolphins, bobbing near the floor then darting and spinning rapidly towards the ceiling that stretched endlessly upward, until again circling rapidly around together in unison like a flock of sparrows.

“It’s beautiful!” I exclaimed euphorically as I locked eyes with one of my fellow air dancers.

“Yes!” he cried back to me, “God wants to see you fly like the seeds of a dandelion riding in the wind!”

…

She was sound asleep at the top of the church entrance stairway, pressed as close as she could get against the large exterior wooden doors of the sanctuary. I could see only her yellowed silver hair peaking through the tangle of tattered blankets that curled around her like a cocoon. I recognized her, though…as did everyone…from the pungent smell of urine that was her calling card. She confessed to me once that this was intentional, her way of protecting herself against the wild dogs, animal and human, that prowled the streets. 

I sat down catty corner from her at the bottom of the stairs and watched as a mischievous winter wind made the trash dance and swirl around her in the dawn sun. Soon her blankets began to rustle as she stirred from her slumber. I turned away from her and looked down at the pavement, doing what I could to honor what little privacy she had. 

After a few moments, feet wrapped in dirty rags shuffled in front of me. I looked up and noticed the women had gathered her things and was leaving. 

“Can I get you some coffee m’am?” I asked as she walked down the sidewalk away from me.

“No. Thank you.”

“Are you sure? Kinda cold this morning.”

“I’m sure. Thank you.” I watched her silently for a moment or two as she headed slowly toward the downtown train tracks.

“Ok,” I said under my breath. “Be well.”

…

*God bless you, Elliot Cohen…a cold and broken God Bless, of course