Friday, October 5, 2012

Real, they must be...

The work, all the work, has taken its toll.  The late nights, the ether, the radiation, the math, the cold coffee in hand warmed cups.  It all added up.  Empirical success was measured in personal, physical failure.  Kafka grew sick.  All parties involved understood the implications of their meddling in and with the universe.  But they moved forward anyway.  Love of science, and science for love.  Any one of them could have fallen ill and succumbed to the madness and rigors of their work.  But it was Kafka that took the full hit.  She doubled in size and took to staring at herself in the cheap plastic mirror that once gave her amusement and allowed her a break from the work that drove her.  Linaeus just watched, supported and loved.  This is how scientists and lovers, trapped in a cage, exist. 

Lineaus quietly pleads to Kafka from a lower perch, “Shut the machine down.  We know it works.  We have done the impossible.  We have bent space and time, and allowed stars from opposite sides of the universe to meet and burn into one.  We have proven that love and math and insanity can undo all the rules that were laid before us.  We have rippled in the black.  Isn’t this enough?”

And Kafka opens her wings and imagines flying.  “It’s okay my love.  We have done the impossible.  Now it is up to them.  (she looks out to the window beyond her and speaks with sadness and love)  Shut it down.  Only under great duress and need will we ever light this candle again.  And honestly, it is only a matter of time before we are caught in our little manipulation of the heavens.  How many light storms above such remote and insignificant spots can occur before some fool takes notice?  Come here my strong little lover.  Sit with me and let’s gaze into the mirror, the universe, and imagine.  What is next my love?  Shall we nudge a planet this time?  Or maybe we just perch and watch the moon, with no purpose at all, just watch it rise and fall again, out our window?”

And together, Kafka and Linaeus, two simple parakeets, sit on the top perch inside their presentable cage (not gilded, that would be too garish and unfitting).  They lean deep into one another and dream.  They dream about flying and the souls they have brought together, and wonder what will happen next.

The next morning she, Eridanus, the traveler of this earth, the willing subject of their experiments, the body evaporated by light and radiation, for love, and brought back together, for love, buys a plane ticket for Baltimore.  All parties involved marvel at the simplicity of her gesture.

A plane ticket.  They could have met the first time so easily.  But instead they chose to dance across the universe and materialize and dematerialize and float and wonder and experiment, and imagine real touch and connection.  The great break thru, the real result of their experiments, was the understanding that love requires time and work.  It seems so simple, but it required great effort to get to this moment.  Why not ripple through the black?  Why not dance upon the ether?  Why not become real in only moonlight, and leave with the morning sun?  Why not?  Time; take time.  Take all the time of the universe.  They all knew,

Kafka, the risk taker…

Linaeus, the understanding…

Eridanus, the lover and loved…

Murdoc, the loved and lover.

This love, the love shared between Eridanus and Murdoc, never began and has never ended.  Kafka and Linaeus were just another part of story; that began a long time ago, and ends a long time away. 

But hold onto this, lovers and dreamers… There is a machine somewhere that ignites when blue skies of night are filled with electricity.  It fires on cool breeze and soft gray clouds gently blending as one.  All you have to do, to know this is real, is to look to the heavens.  You’ve seen the lightning, when it really shouldn’t be there.

Haven’t you?

Eridanus alights in Baltimore,
And Murdoc is home.

They are real.

Real, they must be.

1 comment:

  1. What is a day spent without, compared to all the time in the universe? But what is all the time in the universe against the squeeze of a lover's hand? Who can calculate the worth of Phaeton's fall, just for that one day of galloping across the heavens, or the abundance of love in the starlight poured out by Aquarius?

    The dance continues of unhinged lovers, she in space, he in time, rippling through the black.