This is a story of a land, an imaginary land, the land where I made my tale. Nor is that an ordinary tale, dear reader, but the story of a person, and how one man became himself.
The land is Pan, or all that can be crammed into a circle of the mind. For it is a circle, a circular continent somewhat larger than Australia. One thousand miles across, actually, since one is a good place to start, and oneness is our theme.
The continent is divided by four mighty rivers, into north, south, east, and west kingdoms, each surreptitiously named for an element. At the center of the continent grows a circular forest surrounding a ring of peaks that hold a wide round plain within them. At the middle of that plain sits a large round lake. Centered in that lake is a circular island with an ancient yet bustling metropolis on it, the capital of all of Pan.
In the center of that city lies an enormous natural fountain, in a round font. From here all four rivers find their beginnings. In the very middle of the fountain rises a tall white tower of adamant with no doors. At the top of that tower is a circular room. In the room, at the center, sits a round stone table. On that table, guess what, centered, sits the Sphere of Power, the Crystalmere.
This crystalline sphere is the nexus of our tale. It has to be, if only by its placement. Some a-hole rips it off.
But that’s by the bye. What I want to talk about is circles.
I admit it, I’m a circle geek. Don’t ask me why, but I have dreams about them. I think it may be a philosophical thing. Circles are like candy for my eyes and girl-scout cookies for my heart. So naturally I have a love of spheres, since no matter how you look at them, they’re always circles.
I’ve mentioned my new sphere-garden, the twelve crystal spheres now gathered in astonishing beauty to the left of my monitor, with a large crystalline cube of fools gold to thirteen them up, or to take the perfect circle of twelve and spin it into an infinite spiral. My small stone garden is by far the most beautiful thing I’ve ever grown, and all I did was arrange it. And buy it.
I wonder if writing is like that. If you spend enough, you can get almost anything.
Now the weird part, for numerologists anyway: Metatron’s Cube. I learned about it last night when an internet angel sent me a link to whacked out space alien cosmogroove crystallography, which she knew I would love, after I told her the tale of my newly-sprouted desk area. After surfing mindlessly for a minute or two, from there I somehow ended up here.
Metatron, from what I gather online, is an apocryphal angel in the medieval Jewish and Islamic sacred traditions, mostly. The name is translated from the Hebrew and is very cool, since he can be an angel and a Transformer both. How could a fantasy writer not love something historical called Metatron’s Cube? The angel Metatron was said to be God’s Scribe. How cool is that?
Like any writer of good will and some belief in a Higher Power, I too wish to become God’s scribe, to write with my pen like a bird carves the sky with its wings, to draw my ink from daffodils and make notations in moon.
The story goes that Metatron was a mathemetician as well, and he figured out a way to make all of Plato’s whatchamadilly objects (that is, the five or so perfect geometric solids, including a square, a tetrahedron, and those other hedrons) by drawing lines from thirteen perfectly arranged spheres. This is what’s called Metatron’s Cube:
That’s from a spiritualist/painter called Charles Gilchrist, and the article mentioned his largest recent sale is in the foyer of a local business, fifty-some paintings. This is what I like to call coincidence.
Volume Two is where we restore the Crystalmere, and now that I have a sphere-garden of my own, numerologically correct and as beautiful as crystal thought, my imagination will have a place to contemplate upon spheres, and an eartho-cosmic energy from beyond to send me there.
The all-fired quest to restore the Crystalmere continues.