Spherule

He opened the doors to his face.
The hinges creaked.

He peered out.

The greens of things was bright.
Oranges and blues tangled the sky.
Crafty sighs stole across the surface,
Stealing scents and twisting them
Into a daring and reckless collage.

He thought it would be nice
To hang smells on his walls.
Ravishing smells.
He wouldn't mind a bit of the ocean
Or a few avocados mounted above his bed.

He yawned.

He dully watched as a group of triangles
And giggling squares philandered down the street.
Circles lit across the ground and
Weird shapes hiccuped in the air.
An obtuse blade of grass bent in the wind.

He turned around.

His eyes caught his attention.
He curiously peered into them.
They were circles, too.
He wished his eyes were stars.
He wished his breath was an
Elysian comet, leaving in
His wake a trail of glittering dust.

He shivered and scowled.

His brain cringed at the sudden coldness.
He saw that the sun was blocked by a house.
Squares always seemed to ruin things.
His feet were tired from keeping his
Body from toppling over.
All of him seemed bored and tired.

So, he turned around.

He closed the doors to his face,
And went back inside.

Monet

a thousand and one paintings
blended seamlessly
into oceans and dips and hills
my eyes have never before witnessed.
the gates of the land
proudly lifted their heads
and the voices of the wind and rain
took my breath and sang with it
whispering melodies
my heart has never before heard.

7.15.07

Hair brings one's self-image into focus; it is vanity's proving ground. Hair is terribly personal, a tangle of mysterious prejudices. [S. Alexander]

Gone: 16 inches.

She was there.

No matter how slowly her feet had taken her at the end, they had taken her there.

Directly ahead of her was the circular building, its walls glowing with violet flame, its silvery roof pulsing with a light that seemed to Meg to be insane. Again she could feel the light, neither warm nor cold, but reaching out to touch her, pulling her toward IT.

There was a sudden sucking, and she was within.

It was as though the breath had been knocked out of her. She gasped for breath, for breath in her own rhythm, not the permeating pulsing of IT. She could feel the inexorable beat within her body, controlling her heart, her lungs.

But not herself. Not Meg. It did not quite have her.

She blinked her eyes rapidly and against the rhythm until the redness before them cleared and she could see. There was the brain, there was IT, lying pulsing and quivering on the dais, soft and exposed and nauseating. Charles Wallace was crouching beside IT, his eyes still slowly twirling, his jaw still slack, as she had seen him before, with a tic in his forehead reiterating the revolting rhythm of IT.

As she saw him it was again as though she had been punched in the stomach, for she had to realize afresh that she was seeing Charles, and yet it was not Charles at all. Where was Charles Wallace, her own beloved Charles Wallace?

What is it I have that IT hasn't got?

"You have nothing that IT hasn't got," Charles Wallace said coldly. "How nice to have you back, dear sister. We have been waiting for you. We knew that Mrs. Whatsit would send you. She is our friend, you know."

For an appalling moment Meg believed, and in that moment she felt her brain being gathered up into IT. "No!" She screamed at the top of her lungs. "No! You lie!" For a moment she was free from its clutches again.

As long as I stay angry enough IT can't get me.

Is that what I have that IT doesn't have?

"Nonsense," Charles Wallace said. "You have nothing that IT doesn't have." "You're lying," she replied., and she felt only anger toward this boy who was not Charles Wallace at all. No, it was not anger, it was loathing; it was hatred, sheer and unadulterated, and as she became lost in hatred she also began to be lost in IT. The red miasma swam before her eyes; her stomach churned in ITs rhythm. Her body trembled with the strength of her hatred and the strength of IT.

With the last vestige of consciousness she jerked her mind and body. Hate was nothing that IT didn't have. IT knew all about hate.

"You are lying about that, and you were lying about Mrs. Whatsit!" She screamed.

"Mrs. Whatsit hates you," Charles Wallace said.

And that was where IT made ITs final mistake, for as Meg said, automatically, "Mrs. Whatsit loves me; that's what she told me, that she loves me," suddenly she knew.

She knew!

Love.

That was what she had that IT did not have.

She has Mrs. Whatsit's love and her father's, and her mother's, and the real Charles Wallace's love. And she had love for them. But how could she use it? What was she meant to do? If she could give love to IT perhaps it would shrivel up and die, for she was sure that IT could not withstand love. But she, in all her weakness and foolishness and baseness and nothingness, was incapable of loving IT. Perhaps it was not too much to ask of her, but she could not do it.

But she could love Charles Wallace.

She could stand there and love Charles Wallace.

Her own Charles Wallace, the real Charles Wallace, the child for whom she had come back to Camazotz, to IT, the baby who was so much more than she was, and who was yet so utterly vulnerable.

She could love Charles Wallace.

Charles. Charles, I love you. My baby brother who always takes care of me. Come back to me Charles Wallace, come away from IT, come back, come home. I love you, Charles. Oh, Charles Wallace, I love you.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she was unaware of them.

Now she was able to look at him, at this animated thing that was not her own Charles Wallace at all. She was able to look and love. I love you, you are my darling and my dear and the light of my life and the treasure of my heart. I love you. I love you.

Slowly his mouth closed. Slowly his eyes stopped their twirling. The tic in his forehead ceased its revolting twitch. Slowly he advanced towards her.

"I love you!" she cried. "I love you, Charles! I love you!"

Then suddenly he was running, pelting, he was in her arms, he was shrieking with sobs. "Meg! Meg! Meg!"

And then she felt the earth beneath her, of something in her arms, and she was rolling over on the sweet smelling autumn earth, and Charles Wallace was crying out, "Meg, you saved me! You saved me!" he said over and over.


-A Wrinkle in Time, Madeleine L' Engle

"Love looks not with eyes, but with the mind, therefore is winged cupid painted blind."

"...And when he shall die, take him and cut him out into
little stars. And he will make the face of heaven so fine,
that all the world shall fall in love with night,
and pay no worship to the garish sun."

[Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet]

I saw faces on my wall today.

They watched me
Meticulously.
Their eyes tracing the outline
Of my thoughts
Playing dot-to-dot with
My secrets.
They watched me
Caustically
Insultingly.
Their mouths twisted
In a virulent
Smile.
I know I cannot trust them.
Sometimes though,
I try to.
When they tirelessly
Parade before me,
Sometimes,
I shove my apprehension
And stare into their eyes.
But, I never feel
Better.
I feel decayed.
And, then I glance into
The mirror
On the wall,
And stare at myself
Staring at me.
I watch myself
Meticulously.
My eyes trace the outline
Of my thoughts.
My thoughts play dot-to-dot
With my secrets.
I watch myself
Sneeringly,
Insultingly.
My mouth twisted
In a virulent
Smile.

I know I cannot trust myself.

But, sometimes though,
I try to.

somnolence

oft times my nights
blend into seamless black,
melting reality into
a visionless sleep.

but on certain eves of dawn,
a slight wind ruffles
my unconsciousness,
stirring my sleeping thoughts.

i hear whispers in my ear
footsteps upon my pillow,
my breathing echoes
the rhythmic drums of my pulse.

visions of wild beauty
spin mercilessly into
thousands of paintings, murals
of lacquered hope and terror.

when my nights are such as this,
finally ransoming my mind
when daylight finally breathes--
i wonder if i really slept at all.